Flight
by Sevenstars
Summary: With Slim in Denver on stage-line business, Jess is forced into a gunfight in the Sherman Ranch yard. Now he's certain that, to protect his newfound family from possible harm, he must give them up. I've added nine numbered chapter heads for those who find one big chunk of fic difficult to read.


**Flight**

_by Sevenstars_

SUMMARY: Forced to kill a man in the Sherman yard—while a horrified Andy looks on—Jess decides the time has come for him to leave. But it may not be that easy. Set during First Season, in Jess's first autumn at Sherman Ranch. For those who read my Christmas tale, "All in How You Say It," and puzzled over the references to "the Hamry kid" and Jess's "return from Utah," this is where you'll find out about them.

Thanks again to the ever-amazing Gloria, who beat her own record for beta-ing a... novel...

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_I'm a long way from home,  
and I miss m'loved ones so...  
in the early mornin' rain,  
with no place to go.  
_– "Early Morning Rain"

The letter had been waiting on Slim's desk when he got back from the annual trail drive to Cheyenne. It was what he called a "scatter-shot"—a summons to all Overland relay contractors in the division to meet at Denver; he'd have to leave almost immediately if he hoped to get there in time.

"Why they do this kind of thing I don't know," he complained to Jess as he packed his satchel. "They know most of us are ranchers or farmers and have places to get winter-ready at this season. They could have held this meeting in July or August, when we're on slack time and the travellin's easier. As it is, if we get an early snow, some of us could get stuck on the road."

"Reckon you been to these things before," the Texan observed, leaning on the doorframe.

"Once or twice a year, minimum," Slim agreed. He paused and turned to face the younger man. "I'm sorry I have to go dashin' off like this again, and stick you with all the work. I've just been gone over a week already."

Jess shrugged. "Not your fault. Man don't need to apologize for things somebody else does. Just glad you ain't turnin' me out for the winter. Most ranchers do cut down their crews about this time of year."

"Now why would you expect me to turn you out, after I helped you get your winter gear together?" Slim asked, and then: "Don't answer that. Just do as much as you can while I'm gone. Check the roofs first, house, barn, sheds; make sure all the shakes are nailed on tight, and take a good look at the beams underneath. The last thing we need, once the snow starts to pile up, is to find out that one of 'em was rotten."

"Okay," Jess agreed. "Anything else?"

"Bank up the house foundation with sod, if you have time. And haul in some firewood. Andy can help you with that, he knows all the best places to find dead trees. Pile 'em up behind the barn and we can take our time sawin' and sectioning 'em. Jonesy will make sure we have enough supplies stockpiled, and the feed delivery from the line should be bigger than normal; they know how impassable the roads can get around here, any time after—well, now, though I haven't personally seen snow on the flats before first of November."

Jess listened attentively, nodding now and then. "How long you figure to be gone?"

"It's two days down and two back by stage, if the weather co-operates," Slim told him. "I _hope_ the meeting won't run over three or four days, but the one last year took six, so I can't be sure. If it looks like I'll be away more than a week, I'll telegraph you, and I'll leave word with Bill to have the drivers bring out any wires I send."

"Good enough," said Jess. Then he grinned. "Might even get more done without you than with, bein' as you won't be makin' us do things over to your likin'. Managed pretty good while you was off drivin' them cows, the three of us."

Slim stared at him an instant, then barked laughter. "Just do it right the first time and I won't have to. And next year _you_ can go."

Andy appeared at the bunkroom door. "Stage is just startin' down the hill," he reported. It was the noon inbound for Laramie, Fort Collins, Greeley, Fort Lupton, and Denver.

"Drat," Slim growled, throwing his razor and strop in on top of the other things in the satchel and quickly closing it up. "Probably have to buy more shirts in Denver..."

"I'll take that," Jess offered, "you get your hat and jacket and your rig." He snatched the bag before Slim could and headed for the door.

Jonesy was waiting on the porch with a basket. "Here," he said, thrusting it at his old friend's son, "seein' you won't be here for dinner, I fixed you some leftovers. Half the cooks at those other stations don't know their elbow from a fryin' pan."

"Thanks, Jonesy." Slim shook hands, then squatted on his heels to bid goodbye to his brother. "You help Jess and Jonesy all you can," he said, "and do what they tell you, all right?"

"All right," Andy agreed. "Wish they'd at least have given you time to go to Roundup Day. They did last year."

"I'll bring it up at the meeting," promised Slim, who wasn't looking forward to missing Laramie's annual fall blowout, scheduled to begin the day after tomorrow. "Try to keep Jess out of trouble there, okay?" he added. "Remember he hasn't seen Roundup Day before, just Fourth of July."

"You can count on us," Jonesy promised over the boy's shoulder. "Now git on board before they leave without you. Come on, Andy, we oughtta be seein' to those passengers—"

Jess was already unhooking the tired horses from the coach, bringing up the fresh team, working deftly, quickly, conscientiously. Slim spared a moment to watch him and wondered, as he'd found himself doing more than once these last five months—when he wasn't calling himself nine kinds of a fool for taking on a short-tempered Texas gunfighter with a past and his own ideas of how things ought to be done—how he had made this place go before. For all the trouble Jess had brought with him, or attracted once he was here, it was hard now for Slim to even imagine the ranch without him. And things did seem to have settled down since Laurel DeWalt—apart from that tragic mess with his old friend Mac, Jess's past had left him alone after that. Maybe it was a good sign. They still had their disagreements, their rough spots in the road, but they were learning to work together, figuring out where they had to step light and where not to step at all, each of them slowly, reluctantly, changing some of his old views and modifying his outlook and his habits, all for the sake of the other one and for the odd little family they were creating here, for the ranch and the line. They had a long way to go yet; Slim didn't delude himself about that. But they were trying, which was what mattered most, and seeing results, which was almost as important. There were even times when Slim could look ahead—cautiously, of course—and see Jess still at his side a year from now, five, ten...

Jess gave the tugs and trace chains a last quick once-over with those sharp blue gunfighter's eyes that never seemed to miss the tiniest detail—his survival instincts were still valuable to him even in this prosaic work—and stepped back. "Okay, Andy, tell 'em we're all set," he called over, and the boy vanished into the house to alert the driver and passengers in the kitchen. Slim crossed the yard as Jess tossed his satchel up on top of the coach, and they paused a moment to shake hands, as they had just before Slim left for Cheyenne. "You watch your back down there, hardcase," Jess cautioned. "Denver ain't no town to let your guard down in."

"I've been there a few times," Slim reminded him. "You watch your own back, since I won't be here to do it for you."

Jess drew a breath as if to say something, then thought better of it and squeezed Slim's hand hard. "You bet."

The driver—not Mose; he'd swapped up to the Casper-Sheridan-Billings run for a few weeks' change before the winter set in—came out of the kitchen with a tail of passengers straggling behind him. Slim helped a couple of ladies aboard, gave the men time to follow them—after all, they'd been there ahead of him—and swung up after them with his lunch basket. He could hear a faint scraping sound through the roof as his satchel was secured in place, and then Jess banged the door to behind him and the horses lunged forward in their harness. Slim leaned out the window and waved, watching his friends and his brother saluting him in return from the yard, and then settled into his seat for the ride to Laramie, wondering how many of these passengers would get off there and whether there'd be any new ones coming aboard. Figure an average road pace of seven and a half miles to the hour, they'd get into the Owl Canyon station around sunset; lay over the night, then another thirteen or fourteen hours the next day, and Denver...

**SR**

Jess stepped out of the kitchen into the crisp October morning, pausing to take a deep breath of the good smells of pine and spruce, changing leaves and woodsmoke, cured hay and coffee. This would be the sixth day Slim had been gone. He was a little surprised at how much he missed the big man, given how hard they'd had it at the start. Yet at the same time he liked the feeling of being left in charge, the knowledge that Slim trusted him with the ranch, the stock, the stage-line franchise, Andy and Jonesy. Why, what between roundup and the drive, and now this to-do down in Denver, it was close to a month Jess had been Slim's proxy at home. He'd been entrusted with sensitive matters, even people's lives, before now; that was part and parcel of the profession he'd followed for many years. But this time, this place—there was something different about it. He couldn't put his finger on just what it was, he only knew it was there. Knew he liked it, didn't want to lose it.

Ben had come out to take over for the three-day blowout of Roundup Day, which had proved to combine the best features of the Fourth of July and a county fair, and had offered to stay on afterward, since Jess had the tasks of winterizing the place; Jess had accepted gratefully, knowing that, as important as the franchise was to Slim, making ready for the cold weather to come was in some ways even more so—sometimes the stages might not run, if the snow got heavy enough, or so he'd been told, but the four of them and their stock would still have to live through the season, keep warm and dry and fed. He took a moment to think back over the festival just ended. He'd seen the circus—a good one; first he could remember since the time he'd been in Colorado with Dixie. He'd won the cowpony race, he and Trav; he wished Slim could have been there to see it—they'd come in five lengths ahead of anything else, and that in a sport in which a length equals a fifth of a second. He'd won first prize in the rifle shoot. And Jonesy, bless him, had cleaned up betting on him—on them; it warmed Jess's heart to know the old man had so much faith in him and his horse, especially after their first couple of rough weeks getting used to each other. Though now that he came to think on it, it did seem as if Jonesy had accepted him much quicker than Slim had. Well, Jonesy was older; he'd seen more of life and men. Jess sighed, wondering how long it would take Slim to follow his old friend's lead. He knew Slim trusted Jonesy implicitly, and he knew that even being given charge of the place as he had didn't necessarily mean that Slim felt any better about _him, _himself, than ever. And somehow he wanted that, wanted it as he'd wanted only one other thing in his life up to now...

Andy burst out the door after him and pelted around to the side yard to see to his critters. Ben followed more slowly, as befitted the dignity of a man of his years, and stretched cautiously, rotating his shoulders in the autumn sunlight. "What are you fixin' on for today?" he asked.

"Gonna do just like Slim said before he left, take a good look at them roofs," Jess replied. "You and Andy, you see to the first stage, huh?" He'd meant to get to the job earlier, but Jonesy had needed firewood sawn up and split, and that had taken most of the afternoon once Slim was gone. Then the next day one of the stages had broken a wheel and lost the tire, and there'd been the replacement to see to and the new tire to forge and bend, and since Jess was far from the blacksmith Slim was, it had taken him longer than he'd figured on. He'd almost been ready to stay at the ranch and let Andy and Jonesy go in alone for Roundup Day, but the boy had begged so hard that he'd given in, and now he was the best part of a week behind on the work he'd told Slim he'd do. That bothered him. It was important to him, somehow, that he not disappoint the man who'd given him a bed in his house, a seat at his table, support, trust, something almost like friendship.

At least Mose was coming back to the Laramie run today—he'd sent word on ahead. Mose knew better than to drive right through a pothole and shatter a wheel. Jess didn't want to wrestle with another one till spring—if then.

Ten minutes later he was up in the barn loft with a bull's-eye lantern, examining each strut and rafter, beam and supporting pillar, with all the attention to detail he had learned as a boy, hunting and cowboying, and only improved upon in his years in the gun trade, when missing the smallest hint could mean a man's life. _A roof,_ he thought out of nowhere. _Not __my__ roof... it's Slim's._ And not a roof he lived under, either. But still it was a roof belonging to the same man who owned the one under which he had found shelter, care, welcome, acceptance—even from Slim, though he'd been kind of slow coming around, and Jess (having now had a few months to reflect on the situation here and the relationships within the household) didn't blame him for that, seein' that he had an old friend and a kid brother to protect. The roof where his truth was valued, where he was made to feel he was needed and wanted and appreciated for just who he was. As close, indeed, to a roof of his own as Jess had had since he was just turned fifteen. He paused a moment in his task, struggling with the memories, with the knowledge that he still had a score to settle. Bannister...

_Not for a spell yet, _he told himself firmly. _He's in prison in Rawlins, and not like to be turned loose for another five years or so even if he behaves himself. You knew that, Harper, even when you come here._

And when that time came—if it came—what then? Could he nerve himself to tell Slim the whole painful story of what had set him on this road? Would Slim understand? Would he see why Jess would have to go, one more time, and finish it? He'd ridden off so dad-gum many times these last few months—sometimes it seemed like he spent more time away than doin' the job he'd been hired for...

But always they welcomed him when he came back, fussed over his injuries and served him his favorite dishes, and always he got his pay. He'd protested that, the first time. Said he hadn't been here to earn it, and he didn't take money he hadn't earned. And Slim had got his stubborn on and said that as long as he hadn't quit or been fired, he was still a Sherman ranchhand, and Shermans paid their help, in full.

Maybe that was part why he'd gone into Laramie after Ed Caulder with Slim, when Slim made up his mind that he had to do that in payment for Andy's life. Maybe it was part why he'd done his bit to save General Sherman's life from Branton and Malone, shed his blood for a Yankee officer—_that_ Yankee officer—

well, Slim had been a Yankee officer too, come to that, and Jess didn't really hold any hard feelings about the war... except toward Halleck...

He shook his head, baffled. How had all this happened? He hadn't been looking for... well, anything... when he first rode into the yard, except news of Pete Morgan; not for a job, certainly not a ranchhand's job, and not for anything more than that. Had never expected he'd have... anything like that... ever again.

Andy—

_Quit it!_ he rebuked himself angrily. _It don't do you no good, tryin' to make sense of it._

_Maybe there ain't no sense to it._

And yet...

_...a white man who has been chosen to be your brother..._

No, he didn't believe in that. Maybe it worked for Indians, but not for white people. It just didn't happen that way—dreams, visions...

_...like sun coming from behind clouds..._

He pinched himself, hard, to break the train of his thought. He wasn't going to think about it. It wasn't possible.

_But you got a right to dream, don't you? Same as you got a right to look forward to settlin' up with Bannister._

_That ain't the same thing. That's obligation. That's what you owe Pa and the littl'uns._

He thought, for a moment, of Gil. His brother-in-law, kin, and he'd killed him. Not that Gil had given him a lot of choice in the matter, but still, he hadn't wanted it. Maybe he'd sort of owed it to Francie—if like that sergeant had said, it was Gil's doin's she'd killed herself over... but...

He wondered what _she'd_ think of this place he'd found. Of Slim, Jonesy, Andy, Mose, Ben, Mort Corey in town...

Wished she _could_ know. He'd always been closest to Johnny, of all his siblings, but between him and Francie there'd been a special kind of bond, maybe because they were only twenty-one months apart in age—the least interval of any pair in the family.

He missed her. Missed all of them, but her and Johnny most... except maybe for Ma...

_No! You quit that!_

_It's over. You won't have it, ever again. Can't._

_This here, it's just for now, same as all them other jobs you've had. Best you get that set firm in your head, and not be thinkin' on things that won't happen._

_It's just you. Has been since you and Dixie broke up._

_Just you._

And yet... Slim had come after him to Canada, and to Tumavaca, when he'd had no obligation to do either. They weren't kin, weren't even trail-partners... just boss and ranchhand. And yet he'd come, all the same.

"_...every losing streak ends eventually. Maybe now that you've actually been betrayed by someone you thought you could trust, it's time for your luck to change. Maybe you should be on the lookout for something... something better, something different."_

Miss Kitty had said that, back in Dodge, the day he set out on Morgan's trail—the trail that had led him here.

But she couldn't have been meanin' nothin' the like of this.

He shook his head again, harder. _Get your mind back on your work,_ he told himself. _You told Slim you'd get this done. Didn't give your word nor your promise, but you agreed to it, and that's an obligation._

Lips tight, he focused his attention on the timbering again, narrowing it down like the light through a burning glass. _It's a job, and you got it to do. Get on with it, and forget all them other things._

_Regret don't buy you nothin' in this world..._

**SR**

At a quarter to noon he came down to help Ben get the fresh team rigged up. The stage was just rattling down the slope behind the barn when he gave a testing tug on the off leader's rein turret, and something snapped and sun flashed off metal. "Dang," Jess growled. "Ben, go tell Jonesy there's gonna be a holdup. I gotta take this horse in and replace that harness ring."

"Need help?" the old man offered.

"No, this here's a job for one pair of hands. You go." Gathering in the reins, Jess led the sorrel through the barn doors, vanishing just as Mose brought the coach hallooing into the yard, scattering chickens in the usual storm of squawks and feathers. Ben scurried over to the kitchen stoop to stick his head in the door and deliver his message, then moved in to take the leaders' bits, hold and steady them while Mose set the brake and wrapped the reins, then hollered down, "All right, folks, ten minutes' stop to change horses—coffee and refreshments in the kitchen, first door on the left, and convenience around the back if needed—"

Inside, Andy and Jonesy had just finished setting out plates and cups when the passengers came trooping in. Jonesy looked them over briefly, estimating each one, something he'd always had the habit of doing but had given more attention to since Jess came to live with them. Older man in moleskin trousers and jacket, cherry-colored boots, pearl-gray Stetson with a braided horsehair band—middling cattleman, likely. Younger one, thirty maybe, gold and ivory ornaments on the watch chain stretched across a silver-and-rose brocaded vest with gilt buttons, green cravat with a big black pearl in it, gray beaver top hat—gambler. Two youngish women, one in a fashionable fawn linen travelling suit with a minute tan straw bowler, the other in a maroon silk dress, both very proper in cut, but a bit too much jewelry, both smiling and flirting a little with Andy and the cowman—shady ladies of one kind or another. And a youngster of maybe nineteen or twenty, less formally dressed than the cowman but in a similar quality and style—a fine felt hat, light brown, at least fifteen dollars, maybe as much as fifty, string of silver coins around the crown for a band; striped silk shirt, a green-and-yellow bandanna worn under the collar like a necktie, with a plugged Mexican _peso_ threaded onto it for a slide; a corduroy vest, black Frisco jeans tucked into richly black boots with fanciful butterflies stitched above the vamps—good boots, custom-made if Jonesy was any judge, fifty dollars or better. Flashy, which usually meant not only young but vain. Still, some vanity had its firm foundation. And showing under the brown corduroy jacket, a gun butt-forward in a right-side holster, useable by either right or left hand. Belt and holster studded with silver, carved orangewood buttplates with stars on them—an unusual choice: most men picked walnut or cedar or sometimes rosewood.

Mose tramped in last, looking quickly around as if searching for something. "Welcome back, Mose," Jonesy greeted him. "Just got some of that quince-and-apple preserve you like, or gingerbread if you'd rather."

The driver grunted. "Don't make no difference. Where's Slim?"

"Denver," said Jonesy, surprised. "Hadn't you been noticin' all the operators on the run aren't to home? Division meeting. Left last week, just before Roundup Day."

"Dang," Mose growled, "should'a' thought of that—you're right, I knew that meetin' was on..." He edged closer and spoke in a voice pitched uncharacteristically low. "Jonesy? Where's Jess?"

"In the barn, I think," the cook replied. "Somethin' broke on one of the harnesses just before you pulled in, he figured faster to fix it than to strip the horse and put on a whole new riggin'—why?"

"That kid, the one in the striped silk shirt with the silver coins around his hat," said Mose, still softly. "Charlie warned me about him when I took over in Casper. He knows who Jess is and knows he lives here, heard somethin' about him when he came through headin' north and stopped overnight in Laramie, and he's lookin' for trouble. Charlie heard him talkin' last night in a saloon up there, about how he wondered just how much of Jess's reputation was for real and how much just stuck to him from a fight he was in back in '65 in Abilene. He's trouble, Jonesy."

Jonesy quickly looked over to the table, where the passengers were settling down, passing the coffeepot around. The youngster had taken the chair at the foot, where he could watch the door and the main room, and would be on the left of anyone coming in the side; everyone else was competing for the gingerbread and baking-powder biscuits, but he had taken only a cup of coffee and was drinking in small quick sips, eyes lifting in between to shuttle about the scene. _Trouble sure enough, and most likely thinks he's a lot better than he is, _Jonesy told himself. "Andy—"

"Yeah, Jonesy, what?"

The old man drew him close and leaned down to murmur in his ear; Andy gave the youngster a single wide-eyed boggling look, then whirled and raced out the door. "Reckon he means to try somethin'?" Jonesy asked Mose quietly. "Here, with everybody lookin'?"

"Why not?" Mose replied. "If he fancies himself a gunfighter, it's just what he'd want—plenty of witnesses to say it was a fair fight. I don't say he'll go on home if he don't get a chance at Jess today—he can always stay over and use the rest of his ticket in a day or two, or three, or a week; rent a horse in town and come out for another try. But you might best warn the boy so he'll know."

"That's what I sent Andy to do. Him and Ben between 'em can see to the horses if Jess shows sense and keeps out of sight." Jonesy raised his voice in forced cheer. "No need to bolt your grub, folks, there's been a little problem with the harness on the fresh team, you're like to be here another five or ten minutes. We got applesauce for the gingerbread, and rhubarb marmalade for the biscuits if you don't care for quince..." He could only hope that the delay might make the kid go off his edge, maybe decide to put off his glory-quest for the time being.

Slamming the door behind him, Andy bolted out into the middle of the yard, jammed to a halt for a momentary look around, and saw that no one was in view except for Ben, who had the used team unhooked and tied well away from the trough—it was better to walk them around a little so they'd cool down and not seize up in their muscles, but more vital was to keep them from drinking while they were hot—and was beginning to back the fresh wheelers into place, near-side first. _Jess..._ He lunged for the barn.

**SR**

Jess was lacing the new ring into place with deft fingers when Andy raced down the centerway to gasp out his warning. For a moment a chill raced across his shoulders. It was just what he'd feared all these months. An old enemy finding him here he could have understood—Roney, in his unpredictable way, had come far too close to being that; but a young hopeful hearing of his presence and seeking him out a-purpose, to challenge him and hope to make Jess's reputation his own... he'd hoped to spare these people that.

"What are you gonna do, Jess?" Andy demanded, his pupils dilated only partly from the dimness of the barn.

Jess bit his lip a moment. He still clung to the habit of buckling his rig into place as soon as he got up mornings; he took it off at the table, since Slim insisted, but he never stepped out the door without it, and he was aware of its comforting weight against his thigh—the only dependable friend he had, except for Trav... "Give him what he wants, if that's how he's bound to have it."

"Jess! No, you can't!"

"I got to, Tiger." Without knowing it, Jess had come to exactly the same conclusion Mose had. "If I don't face him now, he'll likely just stay over in Laramie and come out here tomorrow or the next day, maybe even catch me alone out on the range somewheres, though I'm hopin' he'd rather have it with witnesses around. The longer you make a man wait for a fight, the worse his nerves get. Even mine."

"But if you make _him_ wait—" Andy began.

"It don't work that way," Jess cut him off. "Kids like that... there's no predictin' 'em. At least I know he's here _now._ Best to get it over with as quick as I can." His hands went to the boy's shoulders. "Tiger, I promise you, I won't do nothin' he don't force me to. Now get out there and help Ben, I almost got this here job done—I'll be out in a minute or two."

Andy stared up at him, eyes searching his face, then gasped and flung his arms around his hero, clinging to him desperately. "Jess, please... please be careful—"

"I will, but you got to do the same, and Ben too," Jess told him. "Lead can fly 'most anywhere in one of these dust-ups. I want you both to get somewheres that you can take shelter—behind the haystack or around the corner of the barn or somethin'. You give me your word you will?" The memory gnawed at him—Billy, Davy... that day in the express office when he'd shoved Andy to the floor, out of the line of fire... _not to lose another one... druther die myself..._

Andy hung on another long moment, then nodded against Jess's shirt. "My word, Jess," he mumbled. Then he peeled himself off the man—to Jess it felt like a layer of skin coming off—and raced out to the yard again.

_Should'a' knowed it'd be bound to come to this, soon or late,_ Jess told himself, half grimly, half resignedly. _Ain't no gettin' away from what a man is._ He flipped the split thong off his Colt and drew it smoothly out of leather, pulling the hammer back to half-cock and slowly rolling the cylinder against his sleeve, checking the loads, hearing the soft rhythmic click of the action. It was the plain serviceable walnut-handled gun he'd bought in Dodge, after Pete made off with his good customized ivory-butted one. He hadn't honed the action down, though it had been a temptation. _Should have—lay you odds __he__ has— _

The feeling of despair was cold and heavy in his chest. _If it was anybody but a glory-seekin' kid—_

_Of all times, why today, when Slim ain't here to know how it is, when I got Andy and Jonesy and Ben and them passengers and Mose and the guard to think about...?_

_Times I could wish Sam Colt had never had that brainstorm..._

**SR**

Andy passed Jess's message on to Ben, then hesitated a moment or two, thinking furiously. Slim wouldn't let him use a handgun, but rifles were different; in a land where boughten or home-raised meat often had to be supplemented with game, where Indians, coyotes, wolves, bears, and mountain lions were a never-to-be-forgotten threat, every boy and most girls learned to use a saddlegun as soon as their strength permitted it. Despite his "way of pickin' up strays," as Slim had described it to Jess, Andy wasn't unrealistically sentimental about life, human or animal; he'd seen sick or crippled critters put down in mercy, had gone hunting with his brother, ran a trap line of his own for rabbits (and anything else he could catch in it). And he was well aware of the two or three rifles always kept in the barn, in an unobtrusive rack tucked into a shadowy corner and generally covered with a length of tarpaulin tucked close to keep off dust and debri; he'd watched Slim checking them over, cleaning them every so often, he knew where they were. Jess did too, but Jess might not think—

Movement just inside the barn door—Jess was bringing the off leader out to join her mates. Andy dived through the rails of the corral, where he could get to the side entrance without being seen.

**SR**

Jess handed off the sorrel mare to Ben and quietly said, "Andy told you?"

"He did."

"Okay. Hook this critter up and get behind somethin'. They'll be comin' out any second now, like as not—Mose'll be thinkin' about his schedule—" He glanced around quickly and breathed a little easier as he saw that Andy wasn't in view. _I don't want him seein' this... I know he'll have to, soon or late, but not like this, not today, not in his own front yard... not me..._

He checked the angle of the sun, the lay of the shadows, the wind. If the kid was even half as good as he probably thought he was, he'd know the importance of those things too, and if he could see that Jess had already taken every possible advantage of them, he might be persuaded to back down. Not that Jess had much real hope of it, but still, he had to leave every option open. He didn't want this.

_Should'a' told Slim long since, there ain't but one man I've ever really wanted to kill..._

The cattleman came out first, then the gambler delicately blotting his lips with a fine lawn handkerchief, then the two women. _Dang, if he'd only been first out, there'd be less chance of one of 'em stoppin' a stray round... but of course he wants 'em out where they can see how it goes, tell his name around, how he killed Jess Harper in a fair stand-up fight... them fool kids don't never think—_

Mose then, and the guard with his coach gun. _Jonesy, for the love of Pete stay where you can get behind the stove... you can't move as fast as these folks, not with your sacroiliac—_

And then the kid stepped out, paused a moment under the shade of the kitchen trellis. Jess had positioned himself where he'd be seen right off—didn't want the youngster thinking he was likely to be ambushed. He saw the boy's shoulders go back as he realized who this previously unseen actor in the drama must be, saw him begin to move slowly forward.

"I hear you're lookin' for me," Jess said quietly, and saw the gambler stop in mid-stride, the cattleman an instant later and the women almost simultaneously with him. Likely they'd all seen a fight or two in their time.

"If you're Jess Harper I am," said the kid. Light voice, almost pleasant except for the hard steel that underlaid it.

"You got that right," Jess allowed. "Seems like you might show me the same courtesy."

"Hamry," was the reply. "Warren Hamry, out of Idaho Springs, Colorado."

_On his way home, then,_ Jess thought. "You got a reason for this," he proceeded, "or is time just hangin' heavy on your hands?" The name didn't ring any bells with him, but there were always cousins, half-brothers, stepsons, and plain friends...

"I got a reason," said the kid, and a sly smile spread across his face. "I hear you're pretty good. That's reason enough."

"No," said Jess softly. "No, it ain't." _Got to give them people time to get to cover..._ The gambler was already drawing the two women back across the frontage of the house, figuring to pull them behind the angle of the bedroom wing. The cattleman was close enough to the coach to get under it. "I got no fight with you, Warren." _Sound friendly if you can, maybe it'll make him think—_

Neither of them heard the side door of the barn close softly; neither saw Andy ease himself belly-down in the trampled earth of the corral, out in the open as far as his waist, a Henry rifle in his hand. His mahogany bay, Chaps, who was spending his days in the pen in case he was needed to bring stock in from the pasture, pricked ears forward as the light shifting breeze brought him the boy's familiar scent, but hesitated to move toward him, puzzled by his master's unusual behavior.

"But I got one with you," said Hamry. "And don't think I don't know what you're up to, either, Harper. You won't throw me off guard that easy."

Jess let his breath out slowly, took it back again. _It ain't workin'. Well, did I think it would? Seen things like this enough times..._

The kid stopped advancing—Jess's brain automatically triangulated and gave him the distance, thirty feet, just the minimum for the kind of duel where accuracy and speed were about of equal importance. _Any minute now..._ he told himself, watching the youngster's face.

**SR**

Jonesy watched the evolving situation through the window beside the kitchen door, one hand wrapped around the muzzle of the long shotgun that leaned against the wall there. He'd had had his reservations about Jess in the beginning, but had literally grown old in the ways of humanity and soon come to see that the boy had depths perhaps even he wasn't aware of. He'd had some bad breaks in life, though exactly what they'd been Jonesy wasn't yet sure, since Jess didn't seem inclined to talk about them; like as not he'd made bad decisions that had gotten him into trouble. But he had a kind heart as big as his beloved Texas, he was generous and loyal, and he was smart—just not educated. And he was honest—not in the way of never telling a lie or doing wrong, but of not trying to hide what he was, or make excuses for it. Even his volatile nature wasn't something he concealed. Only at certain moments did he assume the stillness of a dormant volcano—and even then, you could see by his eyes and his mouth and the way he stood that he was about to erupt.

Ever since the deaths of Matt and Mary Sherman, who had been closer to him than anyone except his blood family, Jonesy had assumed a private responsibility for the welfare of their sons, and now that Jess had joined the company, he'd extended that responsibility to cover the young Texan as well. He fussed over all three of "his boys" like a mamma hen with so many baby chicks. It didn't matter that two of them would never see twenty-four again and had fought in a war, or that one had a string of killings and wrangles with the law littering his back trail. They were his—the Lord had placed them in his hands, and that was all Jonesy cared about.

It hadn't escaped him how Jess had been willing to leave the place, abandon a situation he must have been perceptive enough to see for what it was, or at least might be, rather than take the chance of exposing the Sherman Ranch family to possible peril from the unstable Roney Bishop. How he'd come back for his "gunfighter's gun" the day Ed Caulder came to town, and then, rather than staying on familiar ground and making Caulder come to him, had ridden back to Laramie so he could confront the man where he wouldn't endanger the people who had taken him in. An assumption, both times, of danger and responsibility, knowing full well what he was doing. Just the kind of thing Slim would have done, if he'd had warning enough. Maybe Jess hadn't realized that, or what it meant, but Jonesy did. Jess might not have admitted it to himself yet, but he knew, down inside, that he was home, that this was his family. He shouldn't be surprised if they were as willing to take chances for him as he was for them.

Quietly Jonesy reached for the doorknob. Time to see if he could tip the odds in Jess's favor—and keep him from having to do something he wasn't eager for.

**SR**

Jess wasn't sure just how long it had been since Hamry had stepped out the door, though he knew it couldn't be as long as it felt like. He'd noticed this phenomenon before; everything seemed to draw out about double before a fight. He found himself wondering, just for a moment, where Andy was. _Wisht he didn't have to be around when this happened... but then where else'd he be? This is his home. He's got a right._

_And this dang fool ain't. Not to spoil it for him, to fill it with bad memories._

He held himself still, perfectly balanced and breathing as Dixie had taught him. He knew now what he would do, if he had half a chance. The right shoulder; that was the place—he was clear about it now. Smash that vital joint, Hamry would never again be as deft with a sixgun as he was now. No danger to Jess or to the people he... cared about; no risk of revenge from family or friends.

The yard was strangely quiet, even the quirkings of the chickens faint and distant. The new voice that intruded on the tableau would have startled Jess severely if he hadn't been in almost what a later generation might have called a zen state, focused yet broadly aware. "Back off," barked Jonesy from the kitchen door, "or I'll fill you so full of holes you won't hold water."

Jess glanced that way. The old man was holding his long double shotgun at chest height, and the Texan knew that he kept it loaded with double-0 buck, which was horribly effective at up to forty yards. "Jonesy, no, this ain't your fight," he said.

"_Jess, look out!" _Andy screamed from somewhere behind him.

He didn't really need the boy's warning: any gunfighter learned the trick of splitting vision. The words weren't fully out of Andy's mouth before Jess was flinging himself sideways in the jump-and-roll that was his standby maneuver for when he was caught short...

**SR**

Andy had pushed himself up on his elbows, the Henry's buttplate snuggled into his shoulder, stock velvet-smooth against his cheek, finger curled about the trigger. _Take his leg out from under him, drop him... you've seen how much even a little wound hurts, when Jess has one, or Slim... Slim always says, a bone shot, that'll bring anything down, even if it's chargin' at you..._

He hadn't expected how fast it would be when it finally happened. He barely had time enough to register how Warren Hamry took advantage of that split-instant of—he thought—Jess's distraction, to scream a warning; had no time at all to fire the round he'd chambered before he left the barn, before Jess was doing the same thing he'd done almost five months ago in the express office, that leap to the side, weight coming down on his left shoulder, turning as he hit, arm thrusting out—a roar of gunfire as Hamry brought his sixgun up, a loud metallic _whang!_ as a bullet struck the copper weathervane at the barn's roofpeak—_Jess, Jess—_

He was lying so still, stiller than a living man should be able to hold himself—but Warren Hamry, on his feet, was swaying like a reed in a high wind, the gun falling from his fingers as a red stain spread slowly across the front of his corduroy vest... his knees buckled... he tumbled forward, rolled a little as he hit, and didn't move again. Slowly, so slowly, Jess began to rise, pushing up on his left hand, his Colt held level and fixed as a stone...

Mose and the guard appeared from the side of the kitchen wing, the former going toward Jess to help him to his feet, the latter stopping beside Hamry's unmoving figure. Jonesy came off the kitchen stoop and advanced slowly. Andy relaxed his grip on the carbine, let it slide into the dirt, and struggled to one knee, then caught hold of the nearest corral pole to help himself up.

"You hurt, boy?" Mose was asking.

Jess had lost his hat; he looked around for it, reached out to recover it. "No," he said gruffly, settling it on his head, his sixgun still pointing in Hamry's direction.

The guard looked up and shook his head. "Dead, Mose. Two shots, square through the pump."

Ben appeared from behind the haystack; the cattleman came up on Mose's other side. "We all saw it," he said to Jess. "He tried to take advantage when he thought you were distracted. He had his gun halfway out of the holster before you moved. It was a fair fight, and I'll say as much to any man who asks, law or otherwise."

"Who was he, anyhow?" Jonesy asked over the guard's shoulder, squinting at the dead man's face.

"Seein' he said he was from Idaho Springs," Mose observed, "I reckon I can tell you. There's a family of Hamrys up there, father and three or four youngsters, been in those parts since '59. Got pieces of a dozen or more minin' properties all around Denver."

Jess's head came up sharply. "You're sure, Mose?"

"I been in this country since '42," the driver reminded him, "and if there's anybody livin' betwixt Casper and Pueblo that I ain't heard about, I'd be surprised to learn it."

Andy scrambled up onto the top rail of the gate, barely noticing that Chaps had crossed the pen to hang his head over the barrier beside him. He'd seen his parents dead, but his memory of his "shot-up" father was very dim, and his mother's death, though lingering, hadn't been violent. The remains of the battle with Yellow Knife's Indians Slim hadn't permitted him to go out and look at—he and Jess had loaded those bodies into the big wagon and taken them somewhere they hadn't specified afterward. Even though he was a good twenty feet from the dead man, it was the first violently killed person he had ever really gotten a clear look at. He stared in a kind of fascination. He had thought, somehow, that there would be more blood.

Then it hit him. _He would'a' killed Jess—if I hadn't hollered—_

_Jess killed him, but I helped._

_But I had to help. Jess belongs to us... to me... I couldn't let him..._

His mind in a whirl, he suddenly reached out, grasped hold of Chaps's mane, and pulled himself astride. The bay's hooves stuttered against the packed earth and everyone looked around as he lunged forward, soared over the far side of the corral with Andy's heels drumming his sides, a hoof knocking the uppermost rail loose with a clatter, and raced up the stage road toward the crest of the ridge.

**SR**

"Andy! _Andy!" _Jess's voice was a hoarse bellow, but the boy didn't seem to hear it. "Andy, no—come back—" He took a step or two, but Mose and Jonesy held him back before he could get any farther.

He struggled against their hands. "Lemme go—I gotta—"

"Not now," said Jonesy with a firmness that wouldn't be denied. "Mose, you'll find a couple of tarps under the lean-to—you'll want to wrap him up to get him back to town—"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Dang, likely we'll get held up the rest of the day, depositions and such..."

"I'll go in with you," said Jess quietly, his attention distracted from Andy and his needs. "It was my fault..."

"No such a thing," the driver told him firmly. "You leave this to us. Like Mr. Crabtree said, we all saw what happened. If Mort Corey really needs your testimony after what we tell him, he can send for you. Boy, you look like death."

Jess flinched, then suddenly seemed to become aware of the sixgun still in his hand and hastily, clumsily returned it to the holster. He was never quite sure what happened in the next ten minutes or so; not till he heard Mose's shout to the team and the clatter and rumble of the stage getting underway did he come back to something resembling a full awareness of his surroundings. He watched as the coach thundered out of the yard toward the Stone Creek ford and the Old Laramie Road a mile or so beyond.

"You okay, son?" Jonesy asked quietly from beside him.

"No," said Jess. "No, I ain't." He drew a long breath. "Why'd he have to make me do that? And in front of Andy most of all?" He shook his head despairingly. "How'm I ever gonna explain this to Slim?"

"You just never mind about Slim," Jonesy ordered firmly. "Mose'll tell him you were forced into it. _I'll_ tell him. He'll see you didn't have a choice."

Jess slowly looked around. "There's always a choice, Jonesy," he said quietly. "Feller I used to ride with once used to say that. Reckon he was right." He looked up the trail, the way Andy had gone. "I gotta find him..."

"Leave him be," Jonesy advised. "He's not used to seein' people die, but this isn't the first time—there was that trouble we had with Yellow Knife, remember? I got a notion what shook him worse'n the fight was that fool tryin' to get the drop on you after he'd made it look like he'd give you a clean chance. He'll be okay. He's lived in these parts all his life—probably knows this ranch better'n Slim does. You come in the kitchen, you need somethin' to calm you down."

"I'm calm."

"Don't argue," said Jonesy. And Jess lacked the energy to try: as was often the case after a killing, he felt drained and hollow. He trailed silently in the old man's wake and sat down at the table, not really noticing what Jonesy was doing—or even that he left the room briefly and came back with a pint bottle of unmistakable configuration.

After a time a large mug of steaming dark liquid was set in front of Jess's nose. "Drink that," Jonesy told him.

Jess sniffed at it uncertainly. "What is it?"

"Tea. Black and strong and hot as you can stand it. Best thing in the world for chill or shock. Got a little somethin' in it for medicinal purposes only, too."

Jess sipped cautiously. The liquid was almost hot enough to scorch his tongue. He took his time, and gradually found himself settling down as the tea and whiskey took effect. Jonesy brought him a thick slab of bread and honey—"The sugar in it'll help you get your energy back," he said—and then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from the young Texan, offering company and silent support.

Slowly Jess found himself able to think again. "I didn't know till now," he said softly, "just how much I really wanted to leave all that behind."

"You _have _left it behind," Jonesy told him. "You bore it better'n you, or he, had any right to expect."

"But not good enough, or I wouldn't'a let him push me into killin' him," said Jess.

"Somebody would have, soon or late," Jonesy insisted. "Seen my share of that kind. They're all askin' for it, and usually they get it."

"But it didn't have to be me." Jess was silent for a long time, pondering. Then, without a word, he drained off the last of the tea, stood, and disappeared into the bunkroom.

Jonesy watched him go, half surprised; with his love of horses, Jess was usually very conscientious about taking care of the used team. But any man who still had a soul would need some time alone, after something like what had just happened. _Guess I better do as much as I can for the poor critters, _the old man thought, _and maybe after he's had some time to think, he'll remember he's still got work to do._

He joined Ben out in the yard, and they stripped the four horses, rubbed them down, let them drink, and turned them out in the pasture. Ben had just vanished into the barn with some of the harness when Jonesy heard the door open—not the kitchen door, but the front one—and looked around. Jess was standing on the porch, looking slowly around the yard as if trying to store up every detail of it in his memory. His saddlebags, stout with a full load of gear, were slung over his left shoulder, his bedroll tucked under his arm, and his carbine in his hand. He'd donned the sheepskin winter coat Slim had gotten him barely a month ago, letting it hang open over his light brush jacket. And on his right hip, in the familiar cut-down holster, hung the ivory-handled sixgun he'd tucked away in the secret cranny in the chimneystack soon after he'd come to live here.

"What are you doin'?!" Jonesy demanded, as the younger man stepped down and crossed the yard to where he stood.

"What's it look like I'm doin'?" Jess retorted. "I'm leavin'." He walked to the corral and set his gear down by the fence, under his tarped saddle, then flipped back the cover to take down his lariat.

"Why? I told you, Slim'll know—"

"Ain't about Slim," Jess interrupted. "Well, not the way you think." He turned, facing Jonesy for the first time, and the former range cook saw the sadness in his eyes. "I thought on it, Jonesy. That feller was on his way home. There'll be folks waitin' on him. When they find out he's dead..." He trailed off, shook his head. "I won't put you, or Andy, or Slim, in between me and somebody that might come after me. I got to go."

"But you don't know that anybody _will_ come!" Jonesy objected. "Sheriff'll send 'em a letter, they'll know—"

"They'll know a fast gun, a man with a rep, killed somebody they cared about," Jess broke in. "Somebody that wore a gun 'cause it's expected, not 'cause he was any real hand with it. It happens too often, Jonesy, I seen it, and I know what comes after. 'Fore you hardly know it there'll be somebody here askin' after me. Better I ain't around. I'm gonna lay long tracks away and make him follow me. That'll keep you all safe. It's the best thing I can do—the last thing I can do for you."

"Jess..."

"No, Jonesy. Don't say it." Jess's face was bleak. "You tell Slim... you tell him, I won't forget. Tell him I..." He shook his head. "Never mind. And... say goodbye t'Andy for me."

Jonesy made one last try as the Texan vaulted over the gate, built his loop, and twirled it once, twice, three times quickly before shooting it out to drop precisely over Traveller's head. The rope-broken bay checked at once as he felt its tug, and Jess drew the horse to him. "What kind of example do you think that is for Andy, runnin' off like this?"

Jess led Traveller through the gate. "Maybe not much of one," he admitted, "but it might keep him alive, him and that hardheaded big brother of his. You heard Mose same as me. A family with pieces of minin' properties all around Denver. Money. Money enough to hire someone to settle scores for the kid. I won't put you all in a professional's way, Jonesy. I can't."

Jonesy opened his mouth and shut it, his heart aching for the younger man's evident grief and fear—not for himself, but for the people who mattered more to him than perhaps he realized himself. _Just like with Bishop and Caulder—only neither of them had anybody likely to care enough for their deaths that they'd come after him. He couldn't take this fight somewhere else—but he can take us out of the play._

Jess was slinging the saddle onto the bay's back, cinching up, settling bit and bridle in place, loosening the loop and coiling the lariat into place on the fork, then deftly, quickly fastening his baggage into place, with the practiced economical movements of a man who has done the same thing more times than he can count. Finished, he leaned a moment against the horse's side, a bone-deep weariness—not so much of the flesh, but of heart and mind and soul—evident in every line of him. Then he straightened, breathed in deeply, slapped his hand on the horn and went up with his peculiar little hop. He turned, looking down at the watching oldster.

"You need anything?" Jonesy asked him. "Grub? Money?"

"I got a couple hundred cash, I can stop somewhere and supply myself," Jess replied. He looked around the yard again and sighed. "I was a dang fool, to think I could ever turn myself into somethin' I ain't, but I let Slim talk me into tryin', just the same. Reckon times I'm too dense for my own good, not to speak of anybody else's. Make sure Andy learns that, Jonesy. It don't do to want things too much." He leaned out of the saddle, offering his hand. "Been a pleasure eatin' after you, Jonesy. You take care of them Sherman boys, you hear?"

"I'd a lot rather you'd stay and help me do it, Jess," the old man said, gripping it strongly.

"I would if I could," said Jess. "But I don't dare. Good luck."

Jonesy watched in silent helplessness as he spun the bay away from the rails and spurred around the side of the barn—the same way he had first come into the yard from the lake, all those months ago.

**SR**

American miners had observed from an early date that Nature always seemed to put gold—and silver too—in her toughest precincts, "somewhere between a rock and a hard place." Precious-metal ores being likeliest to occur in mountainous country, most mining towns were built there, and every camp quickly became a nexus for hopeful treasure-seekers probing outward from it, finding lesser lodes of their own, and often eventually establishing satellite camps, which in turn established satellites of their own. Thus Idaho Springs, which lay strung along a narrow canyon about forty miles west of Denver. It was a mining camp, but for the last two years it had also been attracting health-seekers to its eponymous hot springs. These naturally inspired a demand for good accomodations, and one of the most popular of the hotels that had arisen in response was the New York House, 304 guest rooms, five storeys plus a penthouse, the three lowest courses being built of local stone and the upper ones of frame. Each suite had a private bathroom with a zinc-lined tub, each individual room hot and cold running water, a very French corner washbasin, and a cord to ring for the round-capped, uniformed bellhop, each floor two toilets (one for men, one for ladies) and a bathing room; there was a saloon on one side of the lobby with billiard tables and a forty-five-foot bar, a dining room (with white linen tablecloths and elaborately embossed menus) and kitchen on the other, a ballroom at the back with a separate entrance on the side street, gaslights and elevators. The frontage had been designed in imitation of the grand colonnade of Congress Hall in Saratoga, where the owner and his wife had spent their honeymoon more than thirty years earlier—a three-storey roofed promenade upheld by huge treelike columns, and divided into the main-level portico and two suspended galleries above.

The owner was Ethan Hamry, who had come out to Colorado in the first wave of '59ers, done well, and diversified, buying "feet" in other mines, going into the mercantile and hospitality businesses, taking up land downcountry to raise livestock, and sending back East for his wife and four children. Mrs. Hamry had died of mountain fever in '63, but the family had continued to prosper, living for a time in one of the foremost mansions of the town—and there were always mansions in a successful mining camp, two- and three-storey houses of brick or ornately gingerbready frame, with roomy, well-equipped kitchens and several bedrooms apiece, filled with heavy furniture, diamond-dust mirrors, marble fireplaces, crystal chandeliers, thick carpets, lace curtains, chromos, lithographs, and expensive bric-a-brac, lived in primarily by mineowners and superintendents—until Ethan built the New York House and decided it made better sense to locate himself more centrally. To that end he lived, together with his youngest son and only daughter, in the hotel's penthouse, while his oldest son, who was married, lived on and managed the family's ranch, and the middle one, who wasn't, migrated from one holding to another, serving as the Hamrys' eyes, ears, and on-site settler of disputes and implementer of policy, but staying in between times with his father and siblings. The Hamrys were wealthy, respected, a power in Territorial politics; whenever a telegram came into the Denver office for any of them, a rider on a fast horse was invariably dispatched to carry it to the addressee.

Everyone from Denver to Middle Park and south to Pueblo and Cañon City had at least heard of the trouble in Georgetown last month, when Hamry's youngest boy, Warren, got into a gunfight in the camp's most elegant brothel, killed two men and seriously wounded another. Since everyone was armed and the casualties shot in the front, the local authorities had been obliged to label it a fair fight, but young Hamry had quietly disappeared from the area soon afterward, perhaps, it was said, to prevent his being sought out by any of the other side's kin or friends. It was generally thought that the old man had sent him up to the Montana diggings, where he had some investments and was thinking of making more, to look over the situation there and estimate the worth of the most recently established camps. Gossip also noted that young Warren, who was nineteen and had lived in Colorado since the age of ten, fancied himself a fast hand with a gun, a notion not altogether unwarranted given the results of the Georgetown incident; but as his father's youngest, and the image of the late Mrs. Hamry, he was the apple of the old man's eye, and Ethan Hamry was little inclined to risk his safety unnecessarily.

Not quite thirty-six hours after the gun duel in the Sherman Ranch yard, the four surviving Hamrys—Ethan; son Fletcher, who was thirty; son Justin, twenty-five; and daughter Rosella, twenty-one—gathered in the parlor of the penthouse, where the two young men read for the first time the telegram that had come up from Denver that morning and inspired the dispatch of messengers to fetch them home.

ETHAN HAMRY, NEW YORK HOUSE, IDAHO SPRINGS, C.T.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR SON WARREN SHOT HERE YESTERDAY STOP=REMAINS IN HANDS OF OUR UNDERTAKER STOP=APPRECIATE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING DISPOSITION STOP=COPIES OF WITNESSES' DEPOSITIONS TO FOLLOW STOP=MORT COREY, SHERIFF, LARAMIE

Justin sighed as he passed the flimsy back to his father. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised, and least of all after what happened in Georgetown," he said resignedly, and shot a look at his sister, who nodded unhappy agreement. "It might even have come out of that, for all we'll know till those depositions are sent. It was pretty generally guessed that you'd sent Warren up to Montana, Dad, and the quickest way back here from Montana is by way of Laramie."

"Justin's right," Rosella agreed. "Not only that, it's a night stop for the stages. All somebody'd have to do would be to settle in, wait, and meet each southbound coach. If he'd had a description of Warren..."

"That doesn't change the fact that our kid brother is dead," Fletcher pointed out, "and that we don't know if it was a fair fight or not."

"We will," said Justin, "once this Sheriff Corey can get the depositions copied and put in a mail sack."

"Will we?" asked his father, a craggy, graying man of fifty-five who reminded many people of the rugged mountains from which his fortune had come. "We all know that these small-town lawmen are as likely to be corrupt as not. How can we be sure that those depositions will have more than one word in ten of truth in them?" He scanned the message with an expression suggestive of a desperate prospector in search of even one fugitive glitter of yellow in his pan. "I got rich by taking chances, but they were always made on the basis of sound information and careful thought. Information—the unbiased kind—is what we need now to decide on the truth about Warren's death."

Justin and Rosella traded glances. They were very much alike, these two, in looks and in character: where Fletcher was fair-haired and decisive, much like their father, and Warren rusty-haired with golden-green "cat eyes" and a quick, fiery temper, they were deliberate, even-tempered, and very fair-minded, the peacemakers of the family, often striving to strike a balance between their father and brothers, or (very often in recent years) between impulsive Warren and more mature (if sometimes stubborn) Fletcher. Coming in the middle of the family as they did, they'd been natural allies all their lives; their physical similarity had only reinforced the tendency. Both had begun as golden honey-blonds, but their hair had turned brown with maturity—dark in Rosella, medium in Justin. Justin's eyes were a light blue-green that resembled transparent marble, Rosella's a deep royal blue with violet rings shading into the blue irises around the pupils, which gave the impression of being violet. Justin, like his brothers, wore a suit when it was called for but was most comfortable in range dress; Rosella liked neat, personally-tailored clothes, sparsely but tastefully ornamented, in true, rich medium-to-dark shades that added color to her face, with interest provided by good jewelry, something her father was always willing to pay for, since it was an investment; tonight, square-cut emeralds in her ears, a pair of cameo bracelets, a fire-opal ring, a slender strand of seed pearls, and a gold cross hanging from a dark blue velvet ribbon about her throat. The tiny ruby engagement ring on her left hand was almost unnoticeable. She wore a bottle-green silk trimmed with white lace. Like her brothers, she had been made a full legal partner in the family enterprises, with a twenty per cent share, when she turned twenty-one, which had happened that spring; they all knew that their father's forty per cent would be divided evenly among them when the time came. That meant they would each own one-third of everything—not a quarter as they would have if Warren had lived.

"Dad," Justin offered slowly, "we know how you feel. Warren was your favorite; we've always known that. We cared about him too—he was our little brother; we helped bring him up after Mother died. But he had a temper, and he hated being the youngest in the family, with all your successes to live up to. He probably figured he'd never make it the way you did, so he had to find another way to build a name, or else stay in your shadow all his life. For Rose and me, that doesn't matter too much; we're content to be what we are, and we have responsibilities that satisfy us and give us some scope. For Fletch, well, he's the oldest. Warren... you know he pushed that thing in Georgetown, whether you want to admit it or not. He didn't have any business even being in the town, let alone in—" He hesitated.

"In Lady Godiva's House of Gentlemen's Entertainment," Rosella supplemented forthrightly, "and he went there looking for trouble, and it wasn't the first time either, just new ground. It's been building toward something like this ever since he first hung a gun around his waist three years ago. I'm sorry he's dead, but I can't say I'm surprised. And Justin's right in what he's trying to lead up to; he's just being diplomatic the way he usually does. Odds are that whatever happened to Warren, it was mostly his own fault."

Ethan drilled her with pale-gray eyes that looked almost colorless against his dark-olive skin. "That's no way to talk about your brother."

"It's the truth," she retorted. "You're not blind, Dad. You must have seen it. Isn't that part of why you sent him away? You knew he had no more back-up in him than a charge of powder, and he was just as easy to set off. If anyone had come after him for Georgetown, there'd have been more blood—and you didn't want a feud or a war."

"And I still don't," Ethan declared. "But I do want the truth."

"Well, so do we," said Justin, "but wouldn't it make better sense to wait till we see what those depositions have to say? Maybe we'll find out it didn't have anything to do with Georgetown. Laramie's a good long distance from here, and we don't have interests there. Why would anyone there want to lie about how Warren died? If it had been closer to home, that would be different."

"People lie for all kinds of reasons," the older man grumbled. "All right, then. Let's put it to a vote, just as we would any other family project. You can already guess where I stand. I want to send someone up there, anonymously, to look into exactly what happened. Rose?" It was family custom for him to cast the first vote and his children to follow youngest first.

"Let it lay," said she, "unless we see something in the depositions that points to an inconsistency."

"Forty per cent for an investigation, twenty against," said Ethan. "Justin?"

"I'm with Rose, Dad—against." He looked to his older brother. "Tie, Fletch. Up to you to break it."

The eldest of Ethan Hamry's children hesitated—uncharacteristically for him; he didn't like being caught between his father and his siblings, and up till now he never had been. They might start out differing on what to do, but one of these family conferences, with discussion and debate, usually tipped the balance noticeably in one direction or the other. "I know what Warren was just the same as you two do," he said after a moment. "Why do you think I wouldn't have him working on the ranch? But it doesn't change the fact that he was our brother, that he died in a strange town, and that there's a very good chance someone pushed him into it, just hoping to make it look like a fair fight. All Dad's asking for is to look into it, quietly, and find something that will support whatever the sheriff's witnesses have to say. Or not. It's two days down by stage, and then another five or six hours for the trip up here from Denver; if we wait till the copies get here, it could be next week before we could act as the situation demands. But if we were to send someone up, say first thing in the morning, and if he kept a steady lope and swapped horses every thirty miles or so, he could reach Laramie in a day. Ask around, send us a telegram; by the time it reached us we'd probably have the documents and could make a comparison of the two." Pause, then: "Sorry, Justin, but I vote with Dad."

Justin let out a breath—it wasn't quite a sigh—and nodded. "No hard feelings, Fletch. All right, Dad, who do we send? I'd offer to go, but I'm not sure you'd take what I had to say at face value."

His father looked pained. "I hadn't thought you had that low an opinion of my fairness. But in a way you're probably right. We were all too close to Warren to look at his death impartially. It would be better to send someone with no personal reason to look for things that aren't there. I think Salbridge."

They all considered that. Devon Salbridge was the family's chief troubleshooter—stock detective, mine regulator, bodyguard, whatever the occasion demanded; he'd also been Warren's chief tutor in the use of a sixgun. He'd been with them for three years now. He was on a retainer, $450 a month and his keep; he probably could have gotten more as a hired warrior, but he'd have had to go out looking for the work. He lived at one of the less pretentious hotels in Idaho Springs, thirty dollars a week with full board, which was billed to the family corporation and paid just like the miners who worked underground in their Rose and Bullion mines. He hadn't cared much for Warren—he'd made that plain enough to the rest of the family—but they had never seen any reason to think that he wasn't loyal, efficient, and truthful. Of course he had a reputation; a family like the Hamrys, with their far-flung and varied interests, couldn't afford to hire a man who didn't. But his clear-eyed understanding of the youngest member of the family might offset any tendency to shade things in Warren's favor, and that in itself recommended him to Justin and Rosella.

"All right," said Justin after a moment, "if he suits the rest of you, he suits me. I'll even join him for breakfast and lay things out for him, so he can get started right away. Like Fletch says, with a regular change of horses he can do the trip in ten hours or so, or less maybe. If nothing else, he can at least make arrangements to have Warren's body shipped down here..."

**SR**

Devon Salbridge was twenty-eight, although like most gunslingers he looked older, the result partly of a life a good deal of which had been lived in the open, partly of stringent training and habit, and partly, quite simply, of being what he was. Even three years ago when he came to work for the Hamrys, he'd had the reputation of being a cold, methodical killer with no fear or back-up in him, a man sure of himself and his gun skills and a bad one to cross; some said he'd already killed eighteen men, others maintained it was more like twenty-nine. He was of average size, with the lean grace of a long-time horsebacker (which he was), cool, steady of nerve, and not prone to outbursts of temper. He didn't set his face against stabilized order in general—there had never been a want issued on him—but he reserved the right to carry out private vendettas and to occasionally step outside the law. Above all, he was very efficient at killing.

He liked working for the Hamrys; it was an easy enough job, not nearly as perilous as being in a range war or even riding shotgun for an express company; the money was good, and his employers' wealth and power guaranteed him backing if he had to do something that might seem doubtful to certain observers. On the other hand, it didn't offer many chances to better his name, and that sometimes made him feel restless. When Justin explained his new mission over breakfast at his hotel, he saw immediately that, no matter what Justin himself thought about the situation, this might well turn out to be the kind of opportunity he wanted. He hadn't liked Warren, and had been frank about it—the kid had too short a fuse and too quick a hand (though not as quick as himself), and Salbridge wasn't really surprised to find out that he'd run up against someone better. But, knowing at least as much about the Georgetown fight as the family did, he told himself that he certainly wouldn't be surprised to discover that Warren's fate had been an outgrowth of it; the two men Warren had killed had been connected to a ranching family from South Park that might well have enough money to hire something done about him, and Miss Rosella had called it right—anyone who knew or guessed that the kid had been sent to Montana would only have had to go as far as Laramie and wait till he came through on his way home, at which point he'd probably be off his guard, and tired too—stagecoaching could take it out of you, even if you stopped over nights.

Fletcher Hamry's suggestion regarding relay horses he considered very sensible, and having bought a good roan riding mare for $85 at the stable where he housed his personal horse, he put his own saddle and baggage on her and set out. The mare was obviously quality even when dusty and tired, and when it came time to change mounts he was able to trade straight across for a replacement just as good. It was past seven o'clock and dark by the time he made Laramie, but the saloons were still open. He had a good soak in the hotel tub to loosen up his saddle-stiff muscles, changed into clean clothes, and asked the desk clerk which was the best bar in town. "I ought to say the Casino," the man replied, "being that it's attached to this hotel, but most folks seem to think the Stockmen's Palace has it beat."

"Can I get a meal there?" Salbridge asked.

"You sure can. Just about the only place for it at this hour, except the Casino. Thirty-five cents for everything."

Salbridge flipped him a half-dollar and made his way to the recommended resort. Since Warren had been killed only two days before, he found it not difficult to pick up quite a lot of local gossip about the incident, and without making his personal interest in it overly evident; just ask a few inferential questions to get the ball rolling, then sit back and listen. Like any successful gunslinger, he had cultivated a firm control of his face from an early date, and when he heard the name of the other man involved, he managed not to betray the fact that he was both surprised and intrigued. Jess Harper. He'd heard of Harper, though they'd never met; knew that the man was good—and that he occasionally dropped out of the game and took a straight job, though it never seemed to last very long. He wondered if the five-month figure being talked of as the length of Harper's sojourn in these parts could be accurate. He couldn't see any reason for the locals to be mistaken about it—people weren't likely to forget when a well-known gunhand came to town, still less how long he stayed—and if it was true, that seemed to suggest that the fight hadn't been connected to Warren's dust-up in Georgetown. Still...

He'd go out to this Sherman Ranch tomorrow, he decided—leave town about nine in the morning, he'd get there midway between two stages, the place was said to be a relay station for the Overland, and he knew the first northbound would pull out no later than nine, more likely eight, so it would have time to make the next major town before it got too late.

**SR**

The stage up from Denver deposited Slim Sherman in front of the Laramie Hotel at a little before six P.M. He collected his satchel, set it on a convenient bench and took a minute to bang some of the dust off himself. Ten days gone. Another six-day meeting, same as this time last year. Well, he could hope that there'd be no need for another. After a moment's thought, he set off for the Overland office.

Reece, the office manager, was just about to close up for the night—like most businesses his was open from eight to six, six days a week—when the rancher walked in the door. "Slim!" he said in surprise. "Wasn't expecting you—didn't know when that meeting might break up."

"Railroad stuff," said Slim with a shrug. Ever since the U.P. made it to Cheyenne back in '67—and was immediately halted in its (literal) tracks by the revelation of the Credit Mobilier scandal—it seemed that every division meeting was half taken up with discussions about the road's possible fate and its effect on the line. "Word now is that the steel won't be goin' any farther for a long time, if ever; the court case has just about pushed the road into bankruptcy."

"Well," said Reece, "I can't say I'm unhappy to hear it. Of course the trains would only service a narrow corridor east to west—stages have a lot more freedom to lay out their routes, and they'd still be needed to connect Laramie to Montana and Denver—but still..." He paused a moment and took a breath, but Slim had turned aside to drop his satchel on a chair and didn't see it or his expression.

"You don't mind if I leave this here overnight, do you?" he asked, overrunning whatever Reece might have been about to say. "You can send it out on one of the coaches tomorrow; I've got clothes enough at home for a couple of days. There's no sense my stayin' at the hotel when it's only twelve miles out to the ranch, and a good bright moon to see by."

"Why, no, I don't suppose so, but—"

Slim didn't wait for the rest of the _but_. "Thanks. I've got to get up to Dennison's and hire a horse." He reached into the satchel for his razor and strop, stuffed them into his jacket pocket and was gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving an open-mouthed Reece behind him.

**SR**

"_Slim!"_ Andy's heartfelt cry of surprise and relief was immediately followed by the boy himself, throwing himself into his brother's arms and shoving his face against Slim's shirt. "Oh, Slim, you've got to go after him—you've got to bring him back—he's in trouble, I know he is—"

"Settle down, Andy," Slim responded. "Who's in trouble?" Though he was almost sure he knew, and the grim look on Jonesy's face, as the old man stood from his favorite armchair, only made him more certain.

"Jess," said Jonesy, confirming the sinking feeling in Slim's gut. "Let your brother sit down, Andy, you can't expect him to do anything at this hour, least of all without hearin' the story first. You want some coffee, Slim? Somethin' to eat?"

"Whatever you've got," Slim agreed, "and then tell me what's happened."

**SR**

"You should have telegraphed me in Denver," Slim said after he'd been told about the fight and Jess's departure. "It's been three full days, and part of a fourth—by the time I can get on his trail, tomorrow probably, he could have a couple of hundred miles on me."

"Thought about it," Jonesy admitted, "but I didn't want to make you choose between him and maybe hangin' onto the franchise."

"Hangin' onto the franchise won't do me much good without another man to help me with it, and with runnin' this place," Slim retorted. "You know yourself how hard it was gettin' for me to keep up with the work—you brought it up to me more than once. Andy's right. I'll have to go after him, first thing in the morning. You say Mort didn't send out for him?"

"No," said Jonesy, "he just put a note on the first stage the next day, to tell us that the witnesses had made it pretty clear Jess didn't have much choice but to do what he did. 'Course by that time the boy was gone."

"Tell him the rest, Jonesy," said Andy, his expression midway between solemn and scared. "Slim, there's somebody _after_ Jess—"

"Take it easy, Andy, we don't know that for sure, he never said he was," the old man told him.

"He who?" Slim demanded.

"Feller who came by this midmornin', about halfway between the first and second stages. 'Bout your age or a bit older, average size, kind of angular build, prominent features, brown-black hair and hazel eyes. Rode a white-faced bay with white hind legs, branded Bar Heart high on the near side of the neck, slick-fork rimfire saddle with long taps over oxbow stirrups, Mexican silver on the skirts, same pattern as on his holster, Navajo blanket with big tassels on the corners. Wore a dark red cotton shirt under a fleece-lined buckskin jacket with beadwork on the yoke, yellow leather gloves like Jess's, black-and-brown-striped woollen pants reinforced with buckskin where the wear comes inside the legs, chocolate-brown hat with the tip of a hawk wing tucked into the band. Scar just under the edge of the jaw, left side. Smith &amp; Wesson American sidegun, bone handle with a steerhead on it. Asked us where Jess was—not whether he was here; like he already knew Jess might be. We said he wasn't, and he sort of thought about that a minute, then asked when he'd left, as if he guessed Jess wasn't just out on the range somewhere. We said he rode out almost three full days ago. He asked where to, we said we didn't know, which was the plain truth. It wasn't what he said, exactly, or even how he said it. It was a feel about him... closest I can come to it is those two bounty hunters DeWalt sent after his wife."

Slim frowned. "Did he say anything about this Hamry kid?"

"No, but he didn't have to. There's no mistakin' a professional gun, you know that, Slim."

The rancher thought this over. "If Hamry came from Idaho Springs... if Mort sent his family a wire as soon as he got the body to Elbee's... they could've known the next day. Pretty fast to get a gun on the trail... unless they already had him on staff. He didn't take the stage, though; he'd have had to be on the same one as me, couldn't have gotten down to Denver to catch a northbound before yesterday morning, and he wasn't. He must have come up on horseback, changed mounts as he needed. He could've made ten, fifteen miles an hour easy, faster than a stage... He didn't make any threats to either of you?"

"No," Jonesy admitted, "but we knew, just the same. Andy's been in a state ever since he left."

"Which way did he go?"

The old man shrugged. "Back to town, I reckon. He didn't volunteer what his plans were and we didn't ask. Just glad to get him off the place."

Slim pondered this intelligence, his face grim. The remains of a plate of food sat on the table before him, cold sliced beef with biscuits and beans, fried potatoes, bread, two or three kinds of put-ups, a slice of cross-barred dewberry pie, coffee. "I didn't see anyone like that in Laramie," he said after a moment, "but I wasn't there more than twenty minutes, and I only went to the stage office and Dennison's. He could be there still, tryin' to pick up more information about Jess, or he could be on his trail. Tell me about Jess. You said it's three days he's been gone? And he had all his gear with him?"

"Every bit, even his gun out of the fireplace cubby," Jonesy confirmed. "The other one—the one he had when he came here—we found it on the table, right about where you're sittin', when we came in. I checked the chiffonier drawers he's been usin'—empty as Lazarus's tomb."

"He meant it, then," Slim murmured. "He wasn't just ridin' off somewhere to think about what happened." He looked up with a resolute expression. "Which way did he head, did you see?"

"East," said Andy eagerly. "Right over the notch." That was their word for the game trail that ran over the long spur of the mountain, past the lake, and across the shallow ford of Home Creek, and which they often used as a shortcut to Laramie.

"You weren't here, how would you know?" Jonesy demanded.

"I was up on top of the ridge, in my thinkin' place," said Andy, and that was all he needed to say; both men knew he had a special hidden spot he went to when he felt he had to be alone.

Slim pondered. "All that would do is take him out to Cemetery Road, and that runs north and south," he said. "He won't go north, not at this season. I don't _think_ he'll head south, because he knows that's where the kid came from; he won't want to ride right into the family's arms—he _might_ have stopped in Laramie long enough to pick up some supplies, since you say he didn't take any from here, but he won't keep on in that direction. And he won't go east; he was raised in the Panhandle, he knows what winter's like on the plains. No, my guess is he'll lay a bit of a false trail and then turn west. Remember when he first came here, he talked about California? One rider should be able to get over South Pass long before it's blocked, and from there he could make his way down to Salt Lake, get onto the the Mormon Corridor and cross the mountains at Cajon Pass, which is far enough south that it won't snow up as early. I'll try to catch up with him before he can get that far." He looked at Jonesy. "I'm sorry I'll have to leave you two with all the work—"

"Never you mind," Jonesy interrupted. "We'll manage. You and Jess got the hay in and the stock down off the mountain, that's the most important thing. I'll keep Ben on if I have to, or ask Bill Bates or Reed McCaskey to lend me one of their boys. You go and fetch that young fool home. You tell him this outfit stands together, no matter what. Come on, Andy, help me get some grub together for your brother, if it's packed tonight he can get out as soon as it's light in the mornin'."

**SR**

"Is he asleep?" Slim asked quietly, looking up as Jonesy softly shut the bunkroom door behind him.

For a moment his old friend's solemnity dissolved in a wink. "Camomile tea'll do it every time," he said. "Remember me feedin' it to him every night right after Jess got shot back in May?" He crossed the room to sit down at right angles to Slim's chair. The rancher had his Winchester taken apart and the bits spread out on last week's _Laramie Gazette_ on the dining table, cleaning every part with the kind of attention to detail that Jess sometimes found so irritating. "You know, you ought to get some sleep yourself, if you mean to get off early."

Slim shrugged. "I'm okay. Had plenty of early nights and no range work, the last week or so. I don't want this not to be in number-one condition, just in case I run into your... visitor."

"He wouldn't know you from Adam if you did," Jonesy observed.

"All the same," said Slim cryptically. "And as long as you're here, I'd be obliged if you'd get my bandolier and make sure all the loops are filled."

Jonesy went to the corner cabinet without a word, got the requested item and two pasteboard boxes of cartridges out of the top half, returned and began neatly fitting a round into each of the crossbelt's ninety loops. That was like Slim: better to be overprepared than under-. "If you can find him," he observed as he worked, not looking up, "that's only gonna be half your job, Slim."

The younger man sighed. "I know it. That man's as stubborn as three mules. Sometimes I think it's a Texan failing."

"Well," Jonesy proceeded, "he said somethin' to me, just before he left, that you might be able to use. He wanted me to see to it that Andy grew up knowin' that 'it don't do to want things too much.' Those were his exact words."

Slim frowned. "I don't follow."

"He was sayin' he'd been wantin' a place like this," Jonesy explained. "Wantin' it a long time—maybe all his life. He was sayin' he didn't want to go, but he felt he had to, to protect us—like he did when Bishop was here, only I'm not sure he quite knew, back then, what he'd fallen into here." He squinted shrewdly at his old friend's son. "If you want to protect folks, that says they mean somethin' to you. Jess knows this is his home, knows we're his family, or as near to one as he's likely to have. And what's more, he knows that he knows it; only, maybe, he's afraid to admit it to himself. Another thing he said, too: that he 'didn't know till now just how much he really wanted to leave all that behind.' He's tired of driftin', of fightin'; he wants to settle, and he wants to do it here. You keep remindin' him of that, and he'll have no choice but to come back."

Slim considered this, then nodded. "It's worth the knowin'. Thanks, Jonesy. By the way, is Alamo still out in the home pasture?"

"Yeah. I'd have sent Andy out for him if I'd known you were on your way..."

"That's okay. I'll borrow Chaps and go out myself. While I'm bringin' him in, you can be makin' sure I've got everything I need..."

"Did that already, twice. You've got gear and supplies enough for a couple of weeks, though you should be able to resupply at some point if you have to. Don't forget to take some money with you. Ranchers'll give you anything they can spare, no questions asked, but you'll be stoppin' in towns, maybe, to ask after him, and you'll have to pay for what you get there."

"That reminds me," said Slim suddenly, "I know you'll be worried, and whoever that feller was this mornin' the odds are he's out of Laramie or will be by sometime tomorrow... but... there's always a chance he's slipped Bill a few dollars to let him know if a wire should come in from Jess, or about him. So I'll have to be pretty much incommunicado. If I find Jess, and it looks like we might be a while gettin' back, I'll write you a letter, but no telegrams."

Jonesy nodded. "Not a bad thought. Mind, I don't say Bill's a crook, but if that kid's family is as rich as Mose made 'em sound, they could've provided their hired gun with a lot of expense money, or even a letter of credit. And in any case, Laramie's not the only place that can listen to messages comin' over the wire. If like you say the boy's makin' for California... that's a long ways, and any number of things can happen."

Slim put down the piece he was cleaning and sighed. "Don't I know it. I just hope I guessed right—and that other feller doesn't. Of all the times for somethin' like this to happen, why did it have to be when I wasn't home?"

"Well," Jonesy mused, "there's one thing for it. _If _you can find him, the fact that you bothered to try might go a long ways toward makin' him see the truth."

"For a smart man," said Slim, "he can be nine kinds of a fool when he wants to be. But then, so can I—I was thinkin' about that just the day I left."

Jonesy grinned briefly. "Then the two of you make a pretty good match, just on that account alone."

_Others too,_ Slim thought wistfully, thinking of days working out on the range or shoeing horses or doing maintenance on coaches, of half a dozen fights side by side, of long cool summer dusks on the porch talking of this and that, slowly getting to know each other. _Somehow, I have to make him see sense. I understand that he worries about us, and I can't fault him for that, but... I worry about Andy and Jonesy too, and they stay here and so do I. That's somethin' you do, when you care about people. _

The two of them worked on in silence, Jonesy going on to check the loops in Slim's gunbelt after he'd finished with the bandolier. Then Slim said: "You mentioned Jess left his workin' gun behind... where'd you put it?"

"Thought of that," said Jonesy. "It's in your saddlebag, wrapped up in the same rag the other one was."

Slim smiled softly for the first time since he'd walked in the door. "Always a step or two ahead of me, aren't you?" Then he sobered again. "I just hope Jess doesn't know me quite that well... yet..."

**SR**

Jess Harper had his faults, and he admitted they were legion, but one thing he had never done was give in to panic. He was, in fact, capable of very cool, logical thought as long as he didn't lose his temper—and _that_ he never did unless there were human folks around to rub him the wrong way. He had also been trained to track by "thinkin' himself into the head of what he was followin'," as he sometimes put it, and the natural corollary of that was an ability to also think himself into the position of whoever might be following _him_. Above all, he understood that this might end up to be a long chase, and that meant he would need supplies. He preferred not to go into Laramie to get them, for any number of reasons, but he knew he had to have them, now, tonight.

His goal, simply stated, was to toll his pursuer (or pursuers) away from Sherman Ranch, make sure they wouldn't give in to the temptation to just find themselves a vantage point and loiter around on watch in the hope that he'd come back—because if they did that, and he didn't show, they might eventually start to lose their patience and decide to go down and start questioning Slim and Andy and Jonesy. Might hurt them—and that he wouldn't permit. So, when he first rode out of the yard, he made sure to leave a very clear trail. Any good tracker not only knew how to hide sign, but what to do to make it plain to even the rankest amateur. With luck, whoever came after him would think one of two things: that he _had_ panicked, or that he didn't think they were going to come. And once he got them hooked, it was his game. There was one thing to be said about Wyoming west of the Big Horn and Laramie Ranges, and that was that a good deal of it was mountain country, rich in cover. If he had any reason to think he was being pressed, such a landscape would let him choose his spot and wait, or at worst double back to find a good ambush point.

He sought out the kind of ground that would show his sign: high grass and loose gravel, soft sandy ground, the dry sun-baked flats of clay where water lay in the spring, moss and decaying growth, and above all good moist soil, which took tracks readily and retained every detail of them. He wanted his pursuer to get a good clear look at Trav's hoofprints and at his own sign, to have plenty of opportunity to memorize their individual characteristics. He stopped at the lake margin to let Trav water and to drink himself and fill his canteen, moving around just enough to leave his bootprints in the muddy ground, and went on; passed through the gate where the _No Trespassing_ sign still gave its silent warning, and made his way down the track to Cemetery Road. Here was where his plan became subtle. The best way to lose your tracks was on a well-travelled road, and while Cemetery wasn't exactly that, it was well beaten down (chiefly by the northbound wagon trains that liked to use it rather than get tangled up with stage and ranch traffic on the Laramie Road), the soil in several places washed away from the stony ribs of the earth beneath. He turned north, along the edge of the mountains, away from the easier travelling along the North Platte, making sure to leave a good clear track every so often, until he found what he wanted, a shale slide reaching well up a shallow slope. He made his way up it, slowly and carefully, letting Trav pick his own route, not afraid of leaving sign: shale slides and hides easily, though it makes for uncertain footing, which is why free animals mistrust it. When it began to peter out, he looked for a gully and took his way along the windward lip. This in turn eventually led him into some pines, where he knew he could count on finding a mat of many years' worth of needles underfoot, thick and soft and springy, which didn't show tracks well. Realistically he knew that no matter how many of his tricks he used, he couldn't lose a really expert tracker, but maybe whoever came after him wouldn't be an expert—or, if he was, Jess could slow him down, maintaining his own head start and giving himself time to search out other trail-hiders. And maybe, if his luck held good, it would rain, or even snow, and that would lose his sign entirely.

For the moment, his goal was the high-range meadows where Slim and his neighbors pastured their stock in the summer. Up here they had co-operatively raised several small cabins, which they kept stocked and in repair for use in case someone—or several someones, like the roundup crews of just recently—got caught in bad weather or came up this way hunting. Slim had taken him to see one of them, and shown him the routes to a couple of others, describing how to go to reach them. Jess had a feel for land, and by the time dusk began to gather he had found one of the cabins, its door shut but the latchstring hanging out, windows shuttered against the sharp bite of high-country air in mid-autumn. There was some snow on the ground, but not much, and in any case he felt pretty sure that whoever eventually came after him would take at least two or three days to get under way—maybe more if the family had to send for them.

There was a fenced paddock that could be used for horses or for sick or injured cattle, and a little low stable-shed, three full walls and part of a fourth, where he put Trav up for the night, fetching water from a seep spring just up the ravine, pulling wild mountain hay from the fenced stack hard by. Then he slipped into the cabin, where he found wood already piled beside the fireplace and both candles and a can of coal oil to provide light. He made a small but cheery fire and fixed himself a good meal from the supplies in the stout rat-proof storage cabinets, and gathered enough basic staples to keep him for a week or two: flour, cornmeal, bacon, salt, sugar, coffee, pepper, some onions and potatoes, beans and rice, dried fruit, soda and syrup and baking powder, cornstarch, canned goods. He left a ten-dollar bill on the mantelshelf, weighted with a quartz specimen someone had found and brought in—more than the food was worth. Now he was set. He had his clothes, including his new winter kit; had his guns and camping gear, fishhooks and lines, snare lines and trigger pins, ammunition and reloading kit, matches, tinder, flint and steel, whetstone, a full change of "good-enough" horseshoes, several knives, camp ax, bedroll, slicker. With these, and whatever game he could find, he could go quite a long way.

The day's events had taken a lot out of him, and he slept better than he had really hoped for. In the morning he went looking for game sign, and found what he'd most particularly wanted: a young bull elk, maybe two years old, not yet experienced enough to have followed its fellows down onto the lower slopes when the first snow reached this level. He brought it down with a single shot, dressed it out and wrapped the meat in the hide, leaving what he didn't want for the scavengers—the cattle were down on the low ground now, and both the cabin and Slim's broodmares were located several miles from the spot, so that even if the feast attracted wolves, they wouldn't be close to any owned livestock. Back at the cabin, he sliced steaks from the saddle of the elk and began the process of quick-curing the hide. He made a good dinner off the fried elk steaks and a portion of broiled liver, and set to work to make a set of rawhide Apache boots, such as he'd seen when he was serving in Mescalero country with the U.S. Volunteers under Sergeant Billy, for Trav. They would make the bay's steps silent, and also blur his tracks, hiding any of the little idiosyncracies Jess had gone to such pains to leave a record of; anyone coming on their sign would think it had been made by an Indian pony, which was exactly what Jess wanted them to think.

He cleaned up the cabin and moved out, with Trav securely booted. He made his way back down to the lower ground, not troubling to hide his sign, and just before he hit Cemetery Road again, stopped and unlaced the bay's boots, hung them on his saddlefork and went on. Near Slim's northeast fence line, he cut off the road onto some good long grass and soft ground, and continued in that vein for twenty or thirty miles east, like a homing bird. He stopped for the night, denning up in a nice patch of junipers which would fend off the wind and break up the smoke of his fire; dug out a block of sod to lay out his firewood in, putting it aside to replace in the morning, and built the fire in the shallow hole, which would keep the flames from being seen; ate, and began cutting out a pair of moccasins for himself from what was left of the elkhide. After all, if he meant Trav to leave tracks like an Indian pony, he didn't want to spoil the effect by leaving bootprints if he had to get down...

**SR**

Two days passed. Jess laid his trail east for a ways past the junipers, then began hiding his sign again and moved southwest, into the dry lowlands below Baxter Ridge. He camped the third night in an abandoned sodhouse—soddies might be musty and fuggy, but they had the same great advantage as a stout log house, which was that as long as their roofs stayed tight they would stand firm against the worst winter winds and snows—and by late on the fourth day after Hamry's death was laying out clear tracks some distance south of Laramie, pointing toward the Colorado line but keeping well west of the stage road. He smiled grimly to himself just before he began looking for trail-hiders again. If this didn't confuse the life out of whoever came after him, nothing would.

Now he sought out sun-dried mud, wash gravel, hard shale, rock outcrops, old slides, curly springy buffalo grass, streambeds, the soft sand of washes—all the surfaces that don't hold sign. When he couldn't find any of them, the horse-boots and moccasins came into use. He was heading approximately west, sighting a little south of Medicine Bow Peak. He could have taken the old emigrant road, which was little travelled at this season and would have led him through the rip-roaring mining camp of South Pass City—a busy town was always a good place to lose yourself—and then across the broad easy saddle of the Pass itself, but he'd made up his mind to keep clear of people as much as he possibly could; that was why he'd taken all those supplies from the high cabin. In his time around Laramie he had heard enough to know that there was an alternate route west, over the Medicine Bow Mountains and down into the barrens just beyond; the Snowy Range road, some called it. That was what he was looking for.

After a day of zigzagging across the southern half of the Laramie Basin, mostly by way of old Cole Rogers's Double Circle range (and confusing his trail still more by following a wandering bunch of cattle for a while), he found it. It wasn't much of a trail—looked as if it was primarily used by timber- and firewood-cutters, who didn't have to go very far into the heights to find all the wood they wanted—but here again Jess's feel for terrain stood him in good stead. It wound through timbered canyons to altitudes of 10,000 feet, skirted timberline lakes at the base of perpetual snowbanks, then descended the west slope of the range to the Saratoga-Encampment Valley, one of the oldest cattle-ranching areas in the Territory. The mountain meadows were watered by small, swift streams bordered by silver-trunked aspens shimmering against deep-green pines and plainly outlined by the willows, still reddish-brown with sap. Valley glaciers, feeding from the ice caps left behind at the close of the Ice Age, had moved down the existing river valleys to the basin floors, sculpturing the higher portions of the mountains into alpine peaks and U-shaped valleys, leaving numerous moraines scattered along the valley floors and impounding beautiful mountain lakes. Some slopes were patterned with varicolored shrubs, and the currant and wild-rose bushes filled the gullies and canyons with red and yellow and crimson; hillsides were splotched with frost-touched golden aspens, and the Russian thistle was turning bright red, some of it beginning to fade to dun. Its color was copied by that of the "red beds" of Triassic rocks, conspicuous by their brilliant hue, which could be traced for miles along the foothills of the ranges; interbedded with these shales were numerous seams of white gypsum, which stood out in strong contrast to the enclosing rock. Here and there were high conspicuous hogbacks—long, narrow, somewhat steep hills—along the flanks of the mountain ranges, made up of old sedimentary rocks: sandstones, shales, limestones. Off to his left the high peaks of the Continental Divide extended southward, crowned with perpetual glacier-forming snows, from which streams cascaded down the slopes through timbered woods and flowering meadows, carving canyons and creating waterfalls and lakes. It was a wild, bleak country, yet it had a beauty all its own to the eye of one who had grown up in the Panhandle.

Most of the larger game had moved down into lower elevations, but there were still mallards and green-winged teal, goldeneye and Canada goose, bufflehead and common merganser, blue grouse and some wild turkey, plenty of rabbits, red squirrel, and as he got into the lower country sage-grouse galore and even pronghorn, and with these and the food he'd taken from the cabin he fed himself adequately. The mountain nights were cold, and sometimes Trav had to flounder his way through patches of snow, but of major storms there was no sign, only an occasional windy flurry and one brief, chilly rain. He camped high up, Indian-fashion, wherever he could, regretting that he hadn't given in to the temptation to take Slim's field glasses—but he wasn't a thief. Instead he made use of the heights to eye his back trail, and saw no sign of pursuit. The moccasins never came off his feet now, or the Apache boots off Trav's. He reckoned that once he got over the Territorial line into Utah it would be safe to make the change back.

Making his camps in caves wherever he could find one, thickets where that failed, once in a great hollow that had been eaten out of the lower part of a colossal ancient pine by disease or decay, and once in an old abandoned trapper's cabin, cleaning up religiously after himself, he went on, picking up the "road" on the other side of the Bows and following it down into the dry but lower, windswept but warmer country that formed a great intermontane basin between the Green, Ferris, and Freezeout Mountains to the north, the Sierra Madre to the southeast, and far to the west the Bear River Divide, with the isolated island cluster of the Aspen Mountains in the distance, just east of the Green River, centered by a peak more than a mile and a half high. Jess crossed Savery Creek, noting the 11,000-plus-foot cap of Bridger Peak off to his southeast; crossed Muddy Creek and cautiously skirted Baggs, a rather dubious sort of community—really little but a single store with a whiskey barrel behind the counter, and less than ten people all told—sitting almost on the Colorado line; and from there made his way steadily westward over the salt sage wastes, over half a dozen small watercourses whose names he didn't know. He moved steadily but not fast, conserving Trav's strength. Some two hundred miles out of the Laramie Basin, the land dropped away into a narrow valley through which coursed the Green River.

Here Jess checked to think out his next move. He'd crossed the Green once, further south, and had no special desire to try it again, even at this time of year when the water wouldn't be so high or the current so strong. It was the largest, most dangerous river crossed by the Oregon Trail, and only got more so as it flowed southward and was fed into by more streams, many of them sourced in snow-capped mountains. It was large and deep and powerful, ranging from one to three hundred feet broad in its upper courses and as much as 1500—more than a quarter of a mile—farther down, with a depth of three to fifty feet. At the Oregon Trail ferries it already measured four to five hundred across and an average of twenty deep. Those ferries, he reckoned, lay about twenty-five miles upstream. He had money enough for the crossing, but with emigrant traffic falling off as winter neared, a solitary man would be noticed, remarked on, and remembered. He didn't know just how good a description of him his unknown pursuers might have. He pondered for a little while, then remembered that southwestern Wyoming was populated by many Mormons of English and Danish descent. The country he'd just crossed wasn't the kind that would attract them, but it did harbor many herds of wild horses—he'd mixed up his trail with those of two or three—and these the Mormons might well occasionally go hunting in order to supplement the income from their farms. Moreover if _he_ had come over the Snowy Range road, other travellers might sometimes do likewise—and Mormons had long been noted as shrewd locaters and operaters of ferries. At the same time most non-Mormons preferred to avoid Brigham's people if they could, and the Mormons were just as happy to have it that way—there was still some bitter feeling left from the murder of Joseph and Hyrum Smith in Carthage, Illinois (Slim, who had grown up outside the town, had told Jess that story), and the "Mormon War" of 1857. So these ferries lower down, assuming he could find one, were probably as safe for a hunted man as any crossing he was likely to choose.

He changed from moccasins to boots, stripped off Trav's Apache shoes and stuffed them into his bedroll out of sight, made his way down into the valley and skirmished around a little until he found a well-used trail made almost exclusively by horses—a mustangers' route, as he'd figured. He followed it, and it led him to a line of whitewashed rocks—much like the one he had passed when he first entered Wyoming, back last spring—and a discreet sign informing him that he was now in the Utah Territory. Just beyond was a crossing where an untalkative but willing young Mormon farmer took him and Trav over for a quarter. He made something of a show of moving along the river's edge for as far as he thought the ferryman could see him, camped, and the next day pried off Trav's shoes (which weren't yet worn down enough for a stop at the blacksmith's) and replaced them with the good-enoughs from his saddlebags, which—assuming anyone managed to trace him this far—would leave tracks completely unlike the ones he'd taken such care to make obvious when he started out. He kept the old shoes and went on, avoiding any sign of human habitation.

Off to the south, now, he could make out the easternmost lift of the Uinta Mountains, a range that extended almost a hundred miles west and southwest. He checked again and studied them thoughtfully. This last week or so had given him plenty of opportunity to think about what he wanted to do next. No, he'd decided, he didn't want anything more to do with his reputation as a fast gun. Look what it had done—lost him the best chance he'd had yet at peace, at, maybe, a new life, a new _kind _of life. He'd go to California—he'd never been there—and take an alias and go to cowpunching; it wasn't much of a life, but at least he could stay out of the public eye that way. Maybe, in a few years, folks would forget Jess Harper. And he'd still have the poker skills Dixie had taught him; maybe he could win enough money to put aside for a little place of his own. It wouldn't be Sherman Ranch, it wouldn't have Slim and Andy and Jonesy, but it would be better than what he'd had before, or had now.

He'd been to the Utah Territory before, but not this nearest part of it: he'd headed west, into the Great Salt Lake Desert, looking for Roy Wade. Found him too, and killed him for shooting a friend of his in the back, and then crossed back by way of the emigrant trail, a venture from which he knew that most of Utah from the Idaho line down to Santaquin and Thistle—and for that matter much of the Sevier River Valley south of that—was thick with farms and little settlements where the Mormons had truly "made the desert bloom." He wanted to steer clear of large concentrations of people as much as he could; the more folks caught sight of him, the likelier that eventually whoever came after him would connect with one of them. On the other hand, he also knew that by this time there might already be snow in the Sierra passes, which meant that if he had any hope of getting to California before next spring, he'd have to drop south and eventually follow the Old Spanish Trail—what some folks called the Mormon Corridor now—to Cajon Pass. Yet the Green's valley might be equally good, offering an easy highway south for quite some way, with water and grass and probably game. It was, in fact, a natural moat, too big and deep to ford. Mormon teaching had it that all Indians were "Lamanites," descendants of a lost tribe of Israel, and Mormons were enjoined from coveting the land and other possessions of the redmen, whom they called "brother" and sought out only for the purposes of converting and civilizing them. In the beginning, the Utes had established friendly relations with the first Mormons, and had been allowed to camp near the white settlements. But some of them couldn't resist killing a cow or sheep for food now and then, and in 1849 the Mormons, sickening of such depradations, had raised an armed force that killed twenty-seven of the redskins and drove the rest from the vicinity of the whites' communities and across the mountains to the southeast.

As they spread out and explored the land they had found, Brigham's folk had naturally come across the rich timber and quarryland of the Uintas, and, as they established several little settlements from which to exploit them, had begun pushing the Indians away from those too—not intentionally, perhaps, but their cattle competed with the game and their towns scared it away. Now most of the Utes lived in western Colorado, on a 16,000,000-acre reservation given them, under very favorable terms, in '63, while the Utah bands—the Cumumba, Pahvant, Sahpeech, Sahyehpeech, Toompanawach, and Yoovwetuh, collectively known as the "Uinta Utes"—had been assigned a reserve of their own, about one-quarter the size, between the Green and Colorado Rivers, around the same time. Both divisions of the tribe roamed freely across these vast holdings in small bands, hunting and gathering wild plants for food, and sending a strong band of hunters back across the Rockies every year after buffalo, avoiding the hostile Comanche as best they could. Still, there were always young bucks who looked with envy on the Mormon stock, especially the horses: Utes took great pride in owning many more horses than they could use. The Green, unbridged and unferried, made a perfect natural barrier that kept all but the most daring raiding parties on their own side, and forced these to limit themselves to a few accessible crossings. Which meant that—although he couldn't say of his own knowledge that this was so—it was entirely possible that white settlement was spreading into the country south of the mountains. That was well off the regular trail, and not a route most people might expect him to take.

His mind made up, Jess moved on, coming presently to a narrow road branching off south, and here was a signpost that proclaimed, _Marsh Pass, 18 miles—Vernal, 47 miles._ Vernal. Sounded like a town. The Green would probably take him to it eventually, but he wanted to save time—and to get a lead on anyone who might be following him. So he set off up the Pass road, which led him steadily up the slopes until, at the head of the pass, he picked up a little mountain creek hurling itself down the other side. He followed it till the heights began to peter out, and off in the distance, maybe fifteen miles almost due southeast, he made out the irregular blotch of a clump of buildings and the rising smoke of many fires.

_Gonna have to stop sooner or later,_ he told himself. He'd soon be needing supplies, and he wanted to find out just how far he'd have to go, and where he'd have to turn off, to hit the Old Spanish Trail. The Mormons would know—they'd had twenty-five years, almost, to get familiar with this country; and they might not be as quick as Gentiles would to answer questions about him from other Gentiles. Besides, tough as his years of war and drifting had made him—and tough as he'd kept, even these last few months, with his excursions both north and south—the sight of the town made him feel suddenly, somehow, very tired. He wanted to stop, maybe get cleaned up, get a meal he hadn't cooked for himself, spend a night in a bed before he moved on again. And Trav had worked hard these eight days, he deserved a good rest and plenty of oats...

He was far away from Sherman Ranch now. Anything that happened to him here couldn't do anything to hurt the people he had left behind—and that was why he'd gone, after all.

His mind made up, he touched Trav with the spurs and headed on down the shallowing slope.

**SR**

Slim stopped in Laramie before he got seriously on the road, partly because Alamo hadn't been worked in ten days and he didn't want to push the chestnut too far at the outset, but partly too because he wanted information. He visited Mort Corey at the jail and received assurances that Laramie County had no beef with his errant ranchhand; Mose and the guard and the other passengers had agreed with Jonesy's version of events, and the coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of "death by misadventure," which commonly meant plain foolishness. He repeated the description Jonesy had given him, and learned that Mort had noticed the man in question, eating supper at the Stockmen's around half-past eight the night before last; that he'd been registered at the hotel as Dave Bridges, Dodge City, and had checked out yesterday morning and not been seen since. This tended to support both Slim's and Andy's fears that the man might be some kind of hired gun out to get Jess; doubtless he'd hoped to find Jess at home, finish the matter quickly, and be on his way home again before nightfall. Mort said that the name was unfamiliar to him, but of course it could be an alias; he promised to telegraph Denver and find out if the man was known there, as he probably would be if he was attached to the Hamrys in any way. "Though what good that will do you if you're galloping off after Jess," he observed, "I don't know. You won't be here to get the answer, and _he's_ gone."

"But at least you'll know, and if this fellow shows up again—which he probably will; the stage road is about the best route back to Denver at this time of year—maybe you can have a word with him," Slim suggested. "At least see to it he doesn't trouble Jonesy and Andy again. And I'm not galloping. I'm gonna take a nice easy Army road pace and spare my horse."

He asked around at several of the stores and at Dennison's, but Jess hadn't been there to supply himself for the road. _He didn't take anything from the house,_ Slim remembered, _so what did he plan to do about food? He can live off the country if he has to, but he does want his coffee in the morning... and somehow I don't think he plans to be overnightin' at ranches or farmhouses or stage stations along the way. The best way in the world for a fugitive to be found is to let himself be seen by people who can tell about him afterward._

He ate an early dinner at the café, then reclaimed Alamo (who had been enjoying a good feed of oats at the stable) and got on his way. He had never been to California, but he'd talked with people who had, and read reports and travel tales written by others. Having decided that he knew what Jess had probably done, he didn't try to unravel the younger man's trail. Instead he took the stage road as far as Rock River, picked up the Medicine Bow River and let it take him to the North Platte, followed that to the Sweetwater junction, and traced the latter stream up to South Pass, pausing for a detour to the eponymous mining camp and a quick ask-around. Nobody had seen Jess, or at least admitted they had. If Slim hadn't been who he was, he might have doubted whether he was on the right course, but Slim wasn't a man to doubt himself. No, he decided, very probably Jess had taken a southern route, maybe over the Medicine Bows—a lesser-used trail where there'd be less people who might tell a pursuer which way he'd gone.

Slim went on, dropping down the west side of the pass, following Pacific Creek to Sandy Creek to the Green River ferries—two of them at this main crossing, the Lombard and the Robinson—where the fares were considerably lower at this season than during the heavy travelling months. Again there was no word of Jess, but Slim knew enough to see that this was a river he'd sooner have boated over than swum. He asked the ferryman who took him over about other crossings downstream and was told that there was at least one, used by the Mormons when they'd been mustang-hunting in the salt sage country to the southeast. _That's the one,_ Slim told himself. _He'd want to get over this river before it gets any wider—and besides, doesn't the Ute Reservation extend almost up to the Colorado line? Not that the Indians aren't probably diggin' in for the winter by now, but still, he wouldn't want to risk tanglin' with 'em, not alone._

_All right. Once he was on this side, the most logical thing for him to do would be to head for Salt Lake—it's big enough for him to get pretty well lost in. I'll go there._

He followed Muddy Creek, which fed into the Green, over a high, flat ranching country that ranged up to the 9000-foot mark. Presently the stream split, with Muddy continuing on his left and Blacks Fork running almost parallel on his right. He took the latter and picked up a well-used road that curved gently westward and descended into a broad, level, pleasant valley, where shady groves and meadows lay between barren sweeps of hill and flat. Here stood Fort Bridger, originally a trading post established in 1843 by the famous mountain man. The rich valley had for many years served as a way station for westbound travellers, and trade boomed as the flood swelled; many people, seeing its good features, had decided not to dare the Great Basin and the Sierra, and settled there. It was also a fork in the trail, with one route leading to Fort Hall and the other to the Salt Lake Valley. The fort now served as a base for troops at the Wind River Agency and in the Sweetwater Mining District.

Slim was now almost 365 miles from home, going at a steady cavalryman's pace—walk ten minutes, rest ten, jog ten, and repeat; trot twenty minutes every second hour, halt forty for watering every sixth. With no green troops or horses, no wagons or artillery, to hold him back, and carrying everything on his saddle, he was making a good sixty miles to the day—eighty on the flat, like the new stripped-down mountain regiments. Following a well-marked trail, he didn't have to think much about what he was doing, and his mind turned to the man he was resolved to find and bring home. How could one human character encompass so many contradictions? He had already observed that Jess didn't seem to be proud of his reputation. He didn't boast about it, and while he had told any number of stories about the places he had visited in his travels, he had never spoken of any of the fights he'd been in, even though he couldn't have missed Andy's curiosity about them. Yet neither did he seem to have any interest in putting across the suggestion that nobody (unless they threatened him, or someone he saw as his to protect) had to be afraid of him, or concerned about the fact that an apparent professional gunfighter was, not merely passing through the area or even working in it temporarily, but showing signs of settling down in it. His attitude, while not exactly defiant, seemed to be that he'd be damned if he'd explain or make excuses for himself, and if you didn't like him you could leave him alone. He even took a certain quiet pride in his skill (understandable, Slim reluctantly granted: learning to skin a four-pound sixgun as fast as Jess could do it, and peg your shots accurately at somebody who was probably shooting at you into the bargain, couldn't be easy) and his code of ethics, if not in his rep.

Slim wasn't blind, or deaf either—in fact, given what he'd gone through over his father's death a few years back, he tended to be almost hypervigilant with regard to his household's good name—and he knew quite well that many of his neighbors were half convinced he'd lost his mind, hiring Jess on as a common ranchhand. If Jess would only put some effort into demonstrating that he had no nefarious plans in mind, it would have been a lot easier on both of them. Of course, the longer he stayed around without evidencing any homicidal purposes toward any of the local citizens, the sooner folks were likely to realize that he probably didn't have any, which seemed to be his plan if he had one; but meanwhile his presence did make for a certain amount of tension and general unease.

Still, Slim himself wasn't worried about being conned. He honestly didn't think Jess had that in him. Jess was frank and blunt, almost brutally so; he didn't try to hide what he was. What you saw was what you got. Hot-tempered, poorly schooled, literally murderous when pushed too far, and often troubled by what Slim supposed to be traumatic events in his past; reckless, often grim, sometimes moody, and occasionally subject to fits of black-hearted depression; proud, bitterly resentful of any hint that he might not be physically capable of doing something he wanted to (even if it was because he was injured or ill), stubborn as any three—make that any five—Missouri mules, hypersensitive to slights and insults after the habit of Southerners, prone to snap judgments (for which Slim could hardly blame him; in his profession he must have had to train himself to make his estimates of other people quickly, based on the sketchiest of data), and definitely a trouble magnet surpassing anything Slim had ever seen; yet loyal, generous, honest in his way, keenly observant, insightful to human (and equine) moods and intentions, capable of genuine good humor (however rough)—even prankishness; sometimes impulsive, even downright thoughtless, but never intentionally cruel; genuinely intelligent, curious, sharp and quick to learn, with a retentive memory and strong logical skills if he took the time to exercise them, besides a practical ability to assess quickly and clearly what was needed to cope with a given situation, whether deadly or not; boyishly charming, especially to women, and chivalrous to every degree of the sex, if often shy toward the "decent" ones; gentle to animals and youngsters, an outdoorsman, horseman, hunter and tracker without peer, fiercely protective of anyone he accepted as his responsibility, and a worker: he might not be entirely enthusiastic about the particular chore that came his way, but whatever it was, he always gave it the best he had in him. No slacking, no carelessness, no goofing off.

In some ways Jess reminded Slim of a wild mustang just in off the range. They fought and bucked, and if you didn't watch what you were doing they could kill you, or cripple you, or leave you bedbound and useless for several weeks while you recovered from being kicked or rolled on or whatever. But with patience, kindness, and skill they could be made into working cowponies as fine as anything with papers a foot long—maybe finer. What you had to keep in mind was that, while a horse could kill you without half trying, more than half its fighting was because it was afraid; it didn't understand what was expected of it, didn't know what was coming next, and genuinely thought its life might be in danger. So naturally it defended itself any way it could. Jess was like that. He'd lived rough and (apparently) alone for so long that he scarcely knew how to function under any other conditions. He was uncomfortable talking problems out, and his life experience up to now had taught him that anything that _looked_ like a threat probably _was_ a threat, and was to be met with whatever degree of force proved necessary to render it no longer one. Emotions of the gentler kind scared him, or made him uncomfortable, because to such a man they were like blood on the trail: they showed where you were vulnerable, and that drew predators. He had to be brought along slowly. It had taken Slim himself a while to understand all this; at first the two of them had clashed much more over moral (and to a lesser extent emotional) issues than over anything Jess actually _did_.

But Slim, like any pioneer who hopes to survive the experience, was adaptable. Gradually he had come to see that—regardless of how crudely, and sometimes insultingly, he expressed it—Jess was right in saying that he was too stiff-necked upright for his own good or anyone else's, particularly Andy's. Watching the boy's almost instantaneous bonding with the Texan and the way they related to each other, he'd come to realize that it wasn't just novelty or hero-worship; it was that Jess was (as he might have put it) _simpatico_. He tried to understand, to make allowances for a boy's needs and viewpoints and limited experience. He sympathized with Andy's longing to see more of the world. He hadn't yet forgotten what it was like to be Andy's age (though how he'd managed it with the kind of life he'd lived sometimes baffled Slim). And having gone so far, Slim also admitted (privately) that he wasn't Andy's father and had no right to act like it. They were brothers. He might be older and more experienced, and legally he was the boy's guardian. But also, legally, they were partners; that was what Matt Sherman had stated in his will. And if Slim hoped not to lose Andy entirely, he realized, he'd have to try not to deal with him by fiat so much, and appeal instead to the boy's growing good sense and the practical side of his nature, while at the same time giving him room and opportunity to stretch, to discover himself and try to decide what his place in the world really looked like.

As he had genuinely tried to loosen up a little, Slim had been surprised to find how good it felt not to be sitting in judgment all the time. He began to realize, on reflection, that what he'd been doing was trying to make up for the things over which he'd had no control—the war, his father's death, all the trouble over Matt's good name—by being correspondingly strict about the things he did. Which, he saw, was foolish; it wouldn't change anything. About one thing Jess was absolutely right: the past was past, and nothing you did could make it any better. Your focus had to be on making the future what you hoped for, and on being the kind of person your lost loved ones would approve of. It was one thing to have goals and plans; it was quite another to make yourself unpopular—no, that wasn't quite the right word: popularity for its own sake had never been a priority of Slim's—say rather, to make yourself someone you personally wouldn't have liked to live with. _That_ was the test.

To his surprise and gratification, his efforts seemed to have borne fruit. Andy, like all young human beings, had an instinctive perception toward adult character; Slim had often thought it was something Nature gave them to make up for a lack of size and strength, so they'd know which people to keep out of reach of. He seemed to realize that Slim was making an honest effort to be less dictatorial and fault-finding, to make an improvement in their relationship, and because he was still young enough to believe in the perfectibility of humanity, he responded accordingly. Although it had been something of a struggle for Slim, who had been not only the oldest but for much of his life the only child, and had consequently developed a very stiff sense of duty, he saw that his relationship with his brother was growing looser, easier, and in many ways more fulfilling, more pleasant, more satisfying; they could joke now, and make little bets with each other, and enjoy being together as they hadn't since Ma had died. After all, he reflected, people never spoke of "brotherly respect," only of "brotherly love," and that was what he really wanted—to be the kind of brother Andy could not only look up to and admire, but love and be proud of and maybe, some day, _want_ to be partners with. He didn't delude himself—he knew they had a ways to go yet; but he felt they were heading in the right direction, and for that, although he hadn't said so aloud, he knew he had Jess to thank.

He felt certain, too, that Jess was trying hard to make himself fit in—to control his temper, among other things—which, had he been trained in such matters, he would have recognized as willingness to adapt to an unfamiliar situation and a self-directed effort to do so, both promising psychological signs. Jess had even quit smoking cigarettes, something Slim had told him in so many words he didn't like Andy seeing. And Slim had also seen hints enough to know that the younger man was beginning to bond with them, even if Jess wouldn't admit it. It wasn't just Andy, either. Slim remembered what Jonesy had said after Jess went off with Roney Bishop: _"If you're thinkin' maybe that's why he left—because he knew Bishop wasn't quite right and thought he might be some danger to the rest of us—that occurred to me, too... Knowin' he'd be willing to leave us, leave a place where I think he was startin' to get comfortable, because he figured that was the best way to keep us safe... that's not somethin' a lot of men would do."_ Which was, in fact, exactly what Slim _had_ been thinking at the time. Jess had been with them barely six weeks then; hadn't been but a week or so recovered from the wounds he'd taken when he broke up the robbery at the express office. And yet he'd put his life on the line—or at least exposed himself to that possibility—because he wanted to protect the rest of them. Slim remembered, too, when he'd been about to go into Laramie after Ed Caulder, and Jess had said, _"I'm with you no matter what, you know that."_ It hadn't been any fight of his, and he hadn't known at the time that Slim and Caulder had drawn on each other and—as Slim himself had realized—Caulder had held his hand; he must have understood, knowing Caulder personally as he did, that Slim might very well be putting both of them in danger; but all the same he'd gone along, even though there was no obligation on him to do it... even though, if you came down to it, Slim would almost rather he'd stayed at the ranch, so he'd be there for Andy and Jonesy if the worst happened.

And why, come to that, had he felt secure in the idea that Jess would be willing to assume that role? At that point Jess had already taken off twice (not counting the Bishop incident): once with Gil Brady, once to go to Rock Springs to help his friend Vic—not to mention that disaster with Judge Cade...

Sometimes he was convinced that man was going to drive him around the bend... and yet...

And yet here he was, just like the Brady thing and the Tumavaca debacle, following after him, utterly fixed on his purpose of _getting-Jess-home-in-one-piece..._

After all, what was the saying? _Actions speak louder than words._ Jess didn't talk about his feelings toward them. But he'd proved, over and over, what they were by the way he behaved.

South of Bridger's Ferry, established by the noted mountain man in 1864, the prairies dipped to fertile valleys, watered by Bear Creek and its tributaries, Little and Middle Bear. Hills with limestone outcrops rose on the east, covered with pines. Sagebrush hills gave way to flats crossed by Mormon irrigation ditches, and on the west squat, massive, pine-blue Squaw Mountain bulked on the horizon. Long ago, the Indians said, a young woman and her baby were caught in a blizzard there. The woman, sitting on a large boulder, held her child close to give it warmth, but when the storm ended, after many days, both were frozen to the rock, and their bodies became the mass of it on top of the mountain.

Fifteen or so miles south, the peaks of the Uinta Mountains rose against the sky, glittering with fresh snow, the five tallest heights reaching better than 13,000 feet above sea level. The trail Slim was following dropped slowly but steadily toward the Salt Lake Valley and the deserts to the west of it. He came, around the middle of his sixth day on the road, to a point where two lines of whitewashed rocks, set at hundred-yard intervals, led off from each other at right angles. He'd crossed the Wyoming border into Colorado (and vice versa) enough times to know that this was more of the same: he was at the extreme southwest corner of his home territory. A few more of Alamo's long easy-gliding steps and he'd be in Utah...

He checked, frowning, peering at those snow-capped mountains now barely ten miles away. No. Why would Jess double around like that? He knew the only way to get safely to California at this time of year was to bear south-southwest along the Mormon Corridor and cross the Sierra in the far south, where the snow didn't amount to so much.

Why should _he_ double back? The longer he took on this trail, the farther ahead of him Jess would get, and the more time it would be till he could return home, _with_ that exasperating hard-headed gunslinger, in time for Christmas, if not Thanksgiving...

And yet...

...if Jess really, genuinely thought that someone (other than Slim) might follow him...

Salt Lake was a city of close to 9700 people, more than one in ten of all the white inhabitants of the Utah Territory. Big enough for one man to thoroughly lose himself, lose his trace.

But still... unless you were a Mormon, and bound for one of the Mormon settlements, once you left it, where would you go? Not west into the desert; it might be cooler going now than in summer, but a desert it was, with little water, little grazing, few places to resupply... and Paiutes. North to Idaho, to the gold camps up that way? Maybe. There'd be work enough for a gunfighter in such a country. But it would still mean passing through a thickly settled countryside where a man might be seen and remembered.

California. Jess had said, California.

And how else to get to California now, except by the Corridor?

Only...

...there might be another possibility. Ninety to a hundred and twenty miles east of the Corridor, the Green ran down to the Colorado...

...plateau country, broad, rough uplands cut by deep canyons and valleys... sparsely populated land, but water, game, maybe ranches now, and the river keeping the Indians on their own side for the most part...

_A lesser-used trail where there'd be less people who might tell a pursuer which way he'd gone._ That was the way he'd thought of the route over the Medicine Bows and the salt sage country on the other side of them. The country along the Green probably fit the same description.

Follow the Green to the Colorado and the Colorado to the old Crossing of the Fathers... by that time you'd be three hundred miles or more south of Salt Lake, and anyone who'd thought to ask questions along the well-populated Corridor would have had four, five, six days of no word about you... enough to get convinced, maybe, that he'd guessed wrong...

He narrowed his eyes and stared at that mountain barrier. If _he_ was guessing wrong...

And yet...

Jess had said, think like what you're following. That was what he'd told Andy. If you were following a man who thought he was fleeing for his life and protecting the people he cared about...

It came down to just how far a pursuer would be willing to go. The full length of the Corridor, or would he stop, turn back, convinced he'd made a mistake?

And if he did turn back, try another way, then by the time he realized he'd guessed wrong again, Jess could be in California—could be halfway up the length of the state, or better...

People did forget things, given time... especially in a land patched with farms and towns and ranches, where drifters were common...

He needed to catch up with Jess before anyone else did—supposing Jess wasn't totally paranoid and there _was_ an "anyone"...

...something... he couldn't put his finger on it, but somehow a parallel track like that...

...hadn't Jess said once that people don't expect to be followed or trailed sideways? Or was it something Pa had said, or Flint McCullough?

And if that much was granted, why wasn't it possible that a pursuer wouldn't stop to consider the option of his quarry taking that alternate path, going just the way he thought, only not by the same route?

_Do I dare take the chance?_

Yes. He did.

He swung Alamo to the left, away from the meeting-point of the two lines of stones. There'd been a creek not ten miles back—almost certainly sourced in those mountains...

If one creek came out of them, others did. Maybe one fed into the Green...

**SR**

It was the eighth day after Salbridge left for Laramie that his letter reached the Hamrys in Idaho Springs. Fletcher had left to go back to the ranch and finish buttoning up for the winter; if weather permitted, he and his wife and their four-year-old son would join the rest of the family for Christmas, and if not, they'd see him after the spring roundup. Justin had made a quick swing around the Colorado mining properties for what might be the last time before some of the passes were blocked by snow, and was back with his father and sister.

The letter was a terse report on Salbridge's progress so far, beginning with the word that Warren's body was being shipped down to Denver, and going on to reveal that the gunslinger had learned the identity of the youngster's killer—a professional named Jess Harper. Harper had apparently left the country, but Salbridge was, he said, "on his trail."

By this time Mort Corey's copies of the witnesses' depositions had also made the trip south, but they said nothing of the fact that Jess had in fact been living at Sherman Ranch the last five-plus months, only that the fight had taken place there and had been, as far as the sheriff could determine, a fair one provoked by Warren, not Harper. To Ethan Hamry, the fact that Harper had taken off—and apparently almost immediately after Warren's death—suggested otherwise. Why would a man leave the scene of a deadly fight if he had nothing to conceal? Certainly there was no statement from _him_ in the packet—why hadn't the sheriff demanded one, or gone after him to obtain it? Maybe, as he and Fletcher had believed from the start, it had been a payback for the Georgetown shootings, with Harper hired to do the job. Ethan knew his youngest son had been quick-tempered and quarrelsome—but would he really have pushed the issue with a man who earned his living by his gun? Even the men he'd killed in Georgetown hadn't been professionals; they'd had names for being better than the ordinary with guns, but they'd been basically cattlemen, not warriors.

Maybe this Sheriff Corey hadn't wanted to go up against Harper either. Maybe these statements didn't tell the real story—or at least not the _whole_ story. What that story might be, Ethan wasn't sure—but that was what he'd sent Salbridge to find out.

Justin and Rosella had opinions of their own, which they kept to themselves. But Justin kept an eye on the weather and the mail, and in a corner of his room his gear packed for travel. Somehow he wasn't at all sure that Salbridge was telling everything he knew...

**SR**

**Eight days earlier:**

A hired gun's work often required him to track men down, which was perhaps one reason why some of the best of them had been Indian fighters or Army scouts before they settled into that line. Devon Salbridge was such a man, and he had moreover been a professional manhunter in his time as well. Having been all but ordered off Sherman Ranch by Jonesy, he made his way out to the stage road and paused to think over what he knew. The old man had said Harper wasn't there; that could be true or not. The best way to at least try to find out whether it was would be to look for any sign that he had left. So Salbridge set out to circle the Sherman fence lines, checking each trail and gate he came to. He hadn't expected the place to be fully fenced, but it made his task easier. Going counterclockwise for luck, he came presently to the turnoff from Cemetery Road and the range gate with its _No Trespassing_ sign. There were some tracks in the soft dust that surfaced the little-used trail, but he couldn't make out details. Nevertheless they were enough to move him to ignore the sign and ride slowly and cautiously a mile or two until he came to the lake. And there, still clearly visible in the muddy water-margin, where the night frosts had solidified it, were the prints of a man and a horse. There was no guarantee that they were Harper's, but it seemed that the horse left deeper tracks than most unridden ones might, which suggested that it was carrying baggage. If Harper, for whatever reason, had left the country, he'd need gear—camping equipment, food, warm clothes at this season.

He studied the tracks minutely, committing their every detail to memory, and then went back out to Cemetery Road. It took him a while, but eventually he came upon Jess's tracks where he had turned off, heading east. He followed. This, he reflected, was almost too easy. And so it proved to be. He found Jess's nightcamp in the junipers, but not more than five miles beyond that the trail just about vanished. He made a few casts around and even discovered some dried horse turds, but of the horse that had dropped them he saw no other sign. It could have been an Indian pony, or even a mustang; certainly there was nothing to suggest that it had been shod.

Somehow, he didn't think so.

He gazed eastward, narrow-eyed. Nothing that way but the mountains, Cheyenne, and then the prairie with winter coming on. Harper was said to be a Texan; he'd know better than to go that way, and he wouldn't stop so close to the scene of the fight, not if he thought somebody might follow, which from his behavior he obviously did. What then? South, toward his home state, or maybe New Mexico? It was worth a try...

**SR**

He knew better than to try to pick up tracks on a packed stage road, and in any case if Harper had any notion that someone might be after him, he'd want to avoid places where people might see him and later confirm his passage. He took a zigzag course, swinging east and west across the road, watching for sign. He picked up Harper's tracks once, lost them, found them again, and then, as before, they vanished. He pulled up and let his horse rest, irresolute. He was almost certain now that they _were_ Harper's tracks—what reason would most men have, this time of year, to start out going east and then hide their sign and end up going south? But if it was indeed Harper, he was good—and he had some destination in mind, Salbridge was sure of it now; he wasn't just running blind. He was trying to confuse pursuit, lose anyone like Salbridge himself so he could head off to wherever-it-might-be and not have to worry so much about what might be coming along behind him.

The question was, where might it be? South still made sense, and yet...

On a venture, Salbridge turned back, not east toward the road (he was off to the west of it just then), but almost due north. His white-faced bay had been chosen for stamina and a smooth, easy gait; Salbridge held it to a collected lope, the kind of pace most Western horses could maintain almost forever, and after about two and a half hours reconnected with the road, which had curved around northwestward. He came to the tiny crossroads settlement of Rock River and paused, debating the use of asking after Harper here, then deciding not to bother. If Harper really was on the run, he'd stay away from wide spots in the road like this one, where any stranger would be noticed and remembered. He'd live off the land and any supplies he'd brought from Sherman Ranch, and wait till he got to some bigger community to replenish them; he could hide out in the crowds there.

This was beginning to look like a long chase in the making. Maybe an hour or so off, while he had the bay's shoes examined and bought some oats for it, would do him good later on.

The blacksmith was also the stablekeeper and willingly provided the oats, then invited him to sit down out of the light but chilly autumn breeze and wait while his horse was taken care of. And there he still was, tucked away inside the smithy, when Slim Sherman and Alamo jogged by in the street outside, not stopping.

Hired guns who didn't remain alert to their surroundings didn't live long. Salbridge heard the steady _tock-tock_-_tock_ of the hooves and stood up cautiously, peering around the frame of the doorway with his hand close to his gun, just in case it was Harper—and he'd know if it was...

It wasn't, but the long-legged, easy-striding chestnut carried the same S-R brand that he had seen mounted on the front gable of the barn at Sherman Ranch. The rider—Salbridge just missed getting a look at his face—was tall and straight and broad-shouldered, dressed for the trail, warm coat and chaps and a lightweight muffler wrapped loosely around his throat, and there was baggage behind his cantle. Going somewhere, and sure of it.

Salbridge remembered the things he had heard in the Stockmen's Palace, people talking about Slim Sherman and what in the name of good common sense he must have been thinking about to let a gunslinger stay on his payroll, in the same house with his kid brother... about how Sherman had gone after Harper, once, to Canada, and some rumor about a second such journey, southward...

Was this Sherman? He was riding a Sherman-branded horse. Supposedly the man had been out of town on stage-line business, but he might have come back. And if he had, and had gone home and learned that Harper was missing...

A man who had gone after another man twice before would do it again.

This wasn't the season to be buying or selling stock; it was a time when a conscientious rancher ought to be making ready for winter, tightening up his buildings, bringing in firewood, maybe loading up on feed. And yet here Sherman—maybe—was, miles from home and moving like a man who knew where he wanted to go and wasn't eager to waste time about it.

Like a man, maybe, who knew, or at least guessed, where a missing friend might have gone...

Salbridge moved cautiously out into the street and watched the rider diminishing in the distance, already past the outermost buildings, moving briskly and steadily. As a gunfighter, he had learned to listen to his instincts, and right now they were telling him that Sherman, if it was Sherman, might be the key to the whole business.

As soon as his horse was ready, he paid the blacksmith and got on his way. Just about dusk he came into Medicine Bow, having seen nothing further of the chestnut's rider. He pulled up, looking around. One hotel. There'd be at least one boarding house too—there almost always was, even in the smallest of towns—but that was chiefly for long-term people, not transients. He didn't see the chestnut horse, but that didn't mean anything—the rider had probably put it up somewhere before getting a room for himself. He headed for the hotel—and there, directly above the space where he was asked to sign in, was the neatly scribed signature of _Slim Sherman, Laramie._

He barely hid his smile as he put down another of his aliases, _John Salter_. One way was as good as another when you didn't know where your quarry was... and it seemed that, just maybe, Mr. Sherman did know, or at least had some suspicion.

Sherman would want to get on the trail early in the morning, Salbridge decided. Most likely the old man had told him about Salbridge's visit, had described him; it would be wise to keep out of his sight. Better to give him a bit of a head start, half an hour or so; didn't want him to realize he was being followed...

**SR**

**Marsh Pass:**

Slim came upon the fork in the trail around midday, and paused to study the two routes it presented him. One headed off north and was marked by a signboard that read, _Manila Ferry, 10 miles._ The other branch, which bore straight for the heights, was designated _Marsh Pass, 18 miles—Vernal, 47 miles._ Two or three hundred yards past it, the ground steepened and great flanks of rock pinched in on either side. A pass, sure enough. Slim eyed the narrow track and wondered if it was the prudent way to go. After all, by now there was probably some snow in it. On the other hand, to follow the river, while it would be lower ground and easier going, might take longer. There was no signboard on the river route that mentioned Vernal (which sounded like a town), and by this time, if he'd been going the southern route, Jess was probably feeling the need of supplies. Would he have gone that way, taking his chances that Vernal was near the river? Or would he have dared the pass, which he knew would take him to it?

Nudging Alamo forward, Slim rose in his stirrups and leaned forward over the chestnut's neck, trying to see up the track. It veered around a curve about five hundred yards up, and he couldn't tell what might lie ahead. Of course he could always turn back if he had to, just as he'd done at the Utah line.

He never knew just what made him glance downward, but it was an impulse that he blessed with all his heart in later days. Almost under Alamo's forefeet, clearly preserved by the frost that had begun to seep into the upper layers of the soil by night, were the tracks of a man and a horse, every detail distinct. He swung down and squatted, reins in his hand, tracing with his forefinger the size and shape of the foot, length of stride, projecting seams, and the form, size, and character of sewn seams and repair patches. He knew those prints; he had seen them in the mud of his own yard after a rain, in the soft ground of shaded ravines where he and Jess had stopped at midday to eat and rest. The horse-tracks were unfamiliar, but Jess might have been to a blacksmith somewhere farther back and had Traveller reshod to make his trail harder to distinguish.

_He went up the pass,_ Slim thought, and felt a great warm surge of relief as he realized he'd guessed right—not only that Jess would make for California, but that he'd think of trying the less populated river route instead of the Mormon Corridor. He studied the tracks carefully. Jess had probably gotten down to tighten his cinch and maybe straighten his saddle blanket before going on. With the colder weather, which had pretty much eliminated the bugs, it was difficult to age them, but the slight crumbling of their edges where daytime warmth had loosened the soil suggested they were about two days old—no more than four. If Slim had gone on as he'd been doing before he turned back, he'd have missed his quarry entirely, like as not.

He followed Jess's very good example, drawing Alamo's cinch up securely before getting astride again. "Let's go, boy," he said quietly. "We're right onto him now."

**SR**

Midafternoon brought them to the crest of the pass. Some snow lay in the shaded places, but the trail itself was clear enough. Almost under Alamo's feet a little spring burst from the earth, sending a rill of water tumbling southward down the other side of the divide. Slim paused to take his field glasses from the case on the saddlehorn and scan the lower ground lain out below. Perhaps thirty miles away, indistinctly visible, was a dark patch of unnaturally angular shapes centered in what appeared to be a large green valley, with a thin fog of woodsmoke hovering above it before reaching an elevation at which the wind would begin to disperse it. That would be Vernal. Slim got down, drank at the spring and watered Alamo from the rill, and set off again.

The downslope was much easier, and they made good time for an hour or so, until the pass made another sharp turn and they found ninety per cent of its width blocked by a slide. Slim checked, his heartrate suddenly speeding up. Was this recent? Had it caught Jess and Traveller as they passed beneath? He dismounted and examined it closely. Having spent his youth in mountain country, he had considerable experience with slides. After a couple of minutes he decided that it was at least a month old. He sighed in relief and eyed the blockage. Alamo had been born and bred on Sherman land, and for the first three years of his life had run pretty much at will over ground that varied from grass to bare rock; like all mountain-bred horses he was wonderfully sure-footed, having come to it naturally as he grew. The slide appeared to have settled and packed down; to Slim the odds seemed good that his mount could get over it, though perhaps not if ridden. _It's that, or waste another day or two with the backtrack and followin' the river route,_ he told himself. "Okay, boy," he said, "let's give it a try."

The slide turned out to be quite extensive, at least a mile from end to end. As man and horse proceeded, they found that a later fall of smaller stones from the rim had made the footing less certain. Slim moved cautiously, testing each new step before putting his full weight on it, counting on Alamo's instincts to help him. Then, without warning, he heard the scraping, rattling sound of stone shifting behind him. Alamo snorted and pulled back against the reins. The sound intensified to a soft grinding. Slim let go the reins rather than be yanked off his feet. Alamo whinnied in surprise and Slim heard the uneven rhythm of his hooves dancing on the unsteady stone, seeking purchase and balance.

The sound died away almost as quickly as it had begun, and Slim turned to look for the reins. To his dismay he saw that the chestnut was balancing on three legs, holding his right foreleg bent at the knee, and an oozing scrape showed on the front of the limb, about a hand's width below the joint. Perhaps the horse had gone down, just for an instant, and hit the leg on the slide, or perhaps a flying stone had brushed by just close enough to break the uppermost layers of skin.

"Whoa, whoa... easy, Alamo." Slim reached for his canteen and dribbled water onto the wound, washing away the blood. There wasn't much, and it wasn't spurting, which meant the artery wasn't cut. Within three minutes it was already clotting. Slim knelt and studied it carefully. It appeared to be quite shallow, but that didn't mean it wasn't painful; the man's own experience with assorted cuts from wire and knives told him that. Alamo seemed to be securely balanced and not too disturbed, which was good; horses are extremely sensitive to pain, and likely to start thrashing around from an injury that some other kinds of animals would barely notice. He just didn't want to put his weight on the leg—which probably meant he shouldn't be ridden. In any case, the wound ought to be properly cared for, and Slim couldn't do that here, with nothing but the water in his canteen. He sighed in resignation and looked around. _Now what?_

Out of the side of his eye he caught a flash of movement in the brush a scant hundred yards above the road. He turned, cautious on the treacherous footing, and saw it: a fine eight-point muley buck pricking his way nervously up the higher slope, turning from time to time into the wind, and breaking at last into a bounding canter that took him out of sight.

_There has to be a valley on the other side, _he told himself; deer, unlike mountain goats or bighorn, weren't barren-country creatures, they liked timber to bed down in and brushy country where they could find grass, herbs, leafy weeds, twigs, leaves, moss, nuts, shoots, buds, bark, and wild fruits indiscriminately—not the larch and lichens that could support the animals of the higher elevations. Muleys, as long as they got enough to eat, needed very little water—but some water they had to have. "Stay here, boy," he told the horse, and began carefully working his way higher, toward the level where he had seen the deer. Just beyond, the ground dropped away in a series of alternating terraces and shallow slopes of bare silvery-gray stone, studded with patches of hardy juniper, which in turn gave way to a gentle, grassy slope at the bottom of which spread a beautiful small lake fed at one end by a loosely curving stream. On the far side of this, snuggling up against the base of another, grassier slope, was a thick growth of evergreens. The valley might have covered a full square mile all told, with the lake occupying about a quarter of that. Water, grass, pine timber for shelter, aspen for fuel. This would do.

Slim turned back, skidding a little as he descended, and rejoined his patiently waiting horse, who still stood with the injured leg cocked up off the ground. "Okay, fella. This may be a little rough on you at first, but it's not far. Let's go..."

Alamo followed trustingly, and Slim did his best to choose the easiest route for him, where the stones were packed most securely and the incline easiest. They crossed over the barrier divide and began descending into the valley. Slim set his course for the spot where the stream came into the lake; the trees commenced no more than a hundred feet the other side of it.

He stopped when he came to the bank, stripped the saddle off the horse and found a series of stepping stones that would take him across. Aspens were always a great source of kindling, being self-pruning; they shed their lower branches as they grew taller, and these dried out quickly. He gathered a nice bundle of them, then found a standing dead tree from which he broke off a stock of branches, good fuel for a bed of coals. Back on the other side of the water, he started a fire and let it burn down while he flushed Alamo's wound thoroughly with a heavy trickle of water from the stream. Then he heated more water in his coffee can till it was warm, slicing shavings off his bar of soap until he had a nice sudsy solution. Living as he did a dozen miles from the nearest veterinarian, he had of necessity gained a good deal of practical experience in the treatment of animal injuries of the more acute type, and knew that many wounds healed better if left undressed; there was better drainage, less swelling, and often less scarring. Alamo's leg would be painful for a day or two, but the cut wasn't deep, and the primary trouble was the blood loss; just like a wounded human, he would need to rest and regain strength.

Slim trimmed the hair away from the wound with the long blade of his pocketknife, working upward against the grain, holding his extra bandanna underneath to catch the clippings so they wouldn't fall back into the cut. He dunked the bandanna in the creek and left it there, weighted with a rock, to rinse out, and washed the wound gently but thoroughly with the warm soapy water. Deep in the bottom of his saddlebag Jonesy had provided a flask of "somethin' for medicinal purposes only." Slim cross-hobbled the chestnut with left hind leg just an inch or two off the ground, tethered him close, and carefully cleaned the wound with the alcohol. Alamo flinched at the burn of it, as Slim had known he would, but with his head tied down he couldn't pull far back, and his suspended rear hoof kept him from balancing sufficiently to jump away. Slim soothed him with his voice and made the operation as quick as he could, then left the wound to dry and undid the tetherings. Alamo stood for a moment on three legs, shuddering his coat, and then fell to grazing. On this rich grass, with the injured leg, he wouldn't wander far. Slim shouldered his saddle and crossed the stream into the trees to find a good camping spot.

_Should have gone the long way around after all,_ he told himself. _Probably wouldn't have taken any longer than what I'll lose here waitin' for Alamo to be able to travel. Well, what's done's done, as Pa used to say. Might as well make the best of it... bet there are trout in that lake..._

He built a good lean-to as he often had nearer home, sharpening the ends of aspen-sapling poles with his small camp ax and ramming them deep into the earth with the blunt back of the blade, notching them and building them up, end over end, at the outside edge, until he had a wedge-shaped shelter about eight feet long, three high, and six deep, with a slanted roof of pine branches thatched nicely together, capable of shedding even a considerable snow. Even in the dead of winter, he knew, he could close it up with poles or stretch skins across the front and be snug inside—though he devoutly hoped that wouldn't be necessary. He floored it with a soft carpet of fir boughs to keep himself off the cold hard ground, laid his tarp out on top of them and arranged his blankets conveniently, and stacked his gear at the end of the sheltered space. He cleared away the overhanging limbs above the spot he'd chosen for his fire—pine needles were always full of pitch—and made certain there was no dry timber rot in the ground, which presented the danger of the fire tunnelling under and reaching thick brush unseen.

There were indeed trout in the lake, and they snagged onto the hook and put up a fight like they were sired by bulldogs. He caught two of them, young ones under two pounds each, and took them back to his camp, where he scored them with a sharp knife to break the skin, then pushed a long stick, whittled to a flat-edged point, through each fish from mouth to tail. He thrust these into the ground at an angle so one side of the fishes was exposed to the fire, turning them after half an hour and basting them, just before they were done, with a strong salt-and-water solution. With coffee, a little crisp bacon, a can of tomatoes and a warmed-up one of beans, and a frying-pan hoecake made Western-fashion out of cornmeal, salt, bacon grease, and scalding-hot water, he had a satisfying meal. The delicious aroma of the fish was so tempting that he simply picked off the back fin of each to eat the meat right off the bones, like an ear of corn. He finished off his supper with a can of damson plums for "sweet"—like many attractive men not particularly drawn to liquor he had an active sweet tooth—and went back over the creek, as dusk began to gather, to see how Alamo was doing. The wound showed no further sign of seepage, and the water was shallow enough that he felt safe in leading the chestnut across it to peg up closer to his camp, in case of predators. He made sure his Winchester was loaded, laid it where he could put his hand on it quickly, and arranged his fuel in a wheelspoke design so the fire would burn all night. Much comforted by the knowledge that he'd guessed right about Jess's choice of course, he burrowed under his blankets and slept surprisingly well.

What he never suspected was that Devon Salbridge, having barely avoided his notice by retreating into a clump of tall brush when he heard Alamo's steps approaching on the trail, had given him a three-hour start and then begun to ascend the pass himself. But the stony ground showed no hint of where Slim and his horse had gone over the divide, leaving the trail, and the gunslinger went blithely on over the trail to camp half a mile lower down, where the pass widened out, unaware that the man he thought he was following was now behind and above him...

**SR**

In the morning Alamo seemed in good spirits, though still gingerly in his movements, and his wound was dry and clean, already closing up, though not yet scabbed. Slim set some rabbit snares and did a little exploring, bringing in more firewood, discovering a marshy area along one edge of the lake where he excavated some roots of arrowhead plant—the tubers at the ends of the roots could be boiled or roasted like potatoes—and cattail roots, then worked outward to discover some dormant dogtooth violet, whose bulbs were both edible and wonderfully tasty. The tiny kingdom of the valley reminded him of his own high summer pastures. He found no sign of cattle, but there were tracks of elk and mule deer and even some bear sign. He wondered if there were many such valleys in this mountain chain and whether anyone had thought to establish ranches in them. At these elevations you would be thrown pretty much back on your own resources for five or six months of the year, probably snowed up securely, but lower down it might not be so bad.

He wondered, too, how long Jess had laid over in Vernal. Much would have depended on the condition of his horse—and on how difficult it had been for him to get information about the country to the south. But at least Slim could take genuine comfort in the knowledge that he was on the right track, literally.

As the day began to wane, he returned to his camp to put the cattail roots to cook—they needed plenty of time, otherwise the fibers were tough and took more chewing than they were worth—and dressed out the two rabbits he'd caught, tossing the offal into the lake for the trout, the crayfish, the turtles, and anything else that might find it tasty. Without the trail-weariness that came of a long day of travel, he found himself less inclined to turn in as soon as it was dark, and sat up, listening to the regular cropping sound of Alamo feeding out on the grassy verge of the stream, and thinking about what had happened back at the ranch. From there his mind naturally drifted to a consideration of the relationship he'd found himself in these last few months. Slim was, and knew he was, much more thoughtful and cautious and deliberate, miles less impulsive, than Jess was; he made his decisions carefully, usually after much internal debate. Hardly for the first time, he found himself wondering whatever had possessed him, that first day, to take that totally uncharacteristic, irrational, intuitive, almost instinctive step of—not so much offering a job to a man he barely knew (most of the hands he'd hired on, these last five years, had after all been to some extent strangers; some hadn't worked out, some had but had eventually moved on), but making the offer sound as if there was more behind it than just thirty a month and found. Of suggesting that there was "a real future" for Jess in Wyoming. Of trying to be more than just a boss. Of trying, over and over, to integrate Jess into his household, his family; trying to understand him, to offer him a listening ear, comfort, support, stability.

He thought, out of nowhere, of a word he had struggled with when he was learning the Sioux language from his pa and Flint McCullough, chiefly because it didn't seem to have any equivalent in English. _Hunka_. Roughly, it meant "chosen" or "relative-by-choice," except that wasn't quite right either.

Was it possible, he wondered, to be a brother in spirit? There was kinship, brotherhood by blood; there was the usually short-lived, but iron-tight, bonding that settled into place between the members of a military unit. Why couldn't there be something halfway between?

Could that be the real meaning of _hunka?_ Could it be something Andy had instinctively sensed the possibility of?

No, that didn't make sense. _Hunka_ was an Indian thing, like visions.

And yet...

What if two men were born of the same parents, but separated, for some reason, at such an early age that they didn't remember each other? If they met again, years later, they would be very different individuals, each one the product of a distinct environment, of experiences the other couldn't share. But they would still be brothers, still have that bond of blood, maybe even somehow sense it in each other. Couldn't that same kind of perception—not of blood, but of something equally as real and important—be what would lead to a _hunka_ relationship?

Did it matter what made the bond, why it was there, as long as you were willing to admit that it existed, and to behave accordingly?

In many ways Jess seemed to be everything Slim wasn't, everything he disliked most in men. He was a gunfighter; he made no bones about that fact, and he didn't apologize for it—he had lived the best way he could, clung to his code, and that was enough for him. He could be surly when crossed, especially if the person crossing him wasn't someone he could hit, like Andy or Jonesy or a woman or somebody from the stage line. He had the flash-fire temper Slim expected in Southerners, and he could be a ferocious and even dirty fighter when pressed. Yet he was also fragile and vulnerable, with a troubled soul that showed, sometimes, through the rare chinks in his tough outer shell. He tried not to let anyone know it, which Slim could understand completely: after all, he'd said he'd left home when he was fifteen, which meant he'd been out on his own for a full ten years, in environments where showing your vulnerabilities could get you victimized or killed. In self-defense he had learned to present an appearance of toughness—and he _was _tough, but it was a physical toughness, not an emotional one. Sometimes Slim marvelled at the way Jess had apparently trusted him, on some instinctive level, from the very beginning—enough to begin, almost from the first day, shyly and uneasily revealing something of his deeper self. And then Slim would think of something his father had told him, almost fifteen years ago now: _Happens that way. Two men come together and there's something between 'em from the start. There's a word for a man like that on the range—'pard.'_

He'd think of that, and he'd think of what he'd said himself, out on the Laramie road, after they'd cleaned up Carlin and his followers. _This could lead to something..._

_Yeah, it sure could,_ Jess had said. _Trouble._

He realized, suddenly, that it wasn't Jess's cavalier attitude toward life and death that bothered him. In fact, Jess wasn't a conscienceless killer by any means. As often as Slim had seen him in a fight, he couldn't recall that Jess had ever killed unfeelingly; if he didn't exactly experience remorse at ending another man's life, he certainly regretted the sequence of events that had made it necessary to do so. Jonesy's report of the last minutes leading up to Warren Hamry's death showed that he'd wanted to avoid trouble if he could; he'd given Hamry every possible opening to retreat with honor intact. No, it was more that he didn't seem to consider his own life precious. Once or twice, Slim remembered, he had said, almost casually, that he expected to die sooner than later; that he knew there was someone out there faster than he was—or maybe just less principled, by which he meant, of course, someone who wouldn't mind shooting him in the back. To Jess, this was apparently simply a basic fact of life; he was resigned to it.

Yet for all that, it was a part of the basic dichotomy that was Jess Harper that he was resolved to survive for as long as he could. He might not have any particular purpose to his life, might not know why it should go on, but he wanted to keep it. He had been obliged to fight to do it up to now, which Slim could understand: he'd done the same thing himself, in the war and later. In the process Jess had learned to be sparing with anything—information, physical access to himself (he had a way of shrinking when he was touched, or freezing a moment at one of Andy's impulsive hugs), perhaps above all emotional closeness—that might give others a chance to hurt him. And he couldn't seem to fathom why anyone would want him around for his own sake, as opposed to wanting him for what he could do. To Slim, who had more often felt over-valued than not, it was completely incomprehensible why anyone would hold himself so worthless, care so little about himself. Not only that, he found it deeply disturbing.

_I__ care,_ he thought, and was amazed to realize how true it was. He hadn't gone after Jess those other times simply out of his own basic fair-mindedness, because he didn't like to think of Jess unknowingly faced with bad odds. He had thought that was the reason, and certainly it had been, in part. But there was another, deeper one. He cared about Jess as an individual, about who he was and who he had the potential to be.

They were so different, he almost couldn't believe it. And yet his ma and pa had been very different too—different ancestry, different raising, different education and life experience and family structure. And for twenty-one years they had been as much in love as a pair of newlywed kids.

He remembered how restless Jess had been at first, not only from the dreams that troubled his sleep, but from the unaccustomed comfort of a good sweetgrass mattress, three regular and abundant meals every day, and the efforts of the rest of them to draw him into their circle, to make him feel as if he belonged. And yet he had tried. Every step of the way had been a struggle for him, but he'd refused to give up. For a man who'd been ten years homeless, it must require an entirely new mode of thought to try to settle down, to integrate himself with a family. Often he didn't seem to fully understand what was expected of him or where he'd made a mistake, yet he was trying so hard, it could break your heart to watch him.

Slim had noticed, too, that Jess didn't take praise or compliments at all well. At least, he never seemed to be able to find the right way to respond to them. It was as if he wasn't entirely sure he deserved them. Slim remembered something he'd let drop when he talked about his sister Francie, that she was "about the best of us." Could it be that he had some perception of himself as being of bad blood, unworthy? Or had he been regarded and treated for so long as either a worthless no-'count saddle tramp or a dangerous hair-trigger killer that, almost against his own will, he'd half come to believe that it was true?

Somewhere, somehow, he had acquired a sound ethical foundation. He believed in giving an honest day's work for an honest day's pay; he valued loyalty even when he didn't get it in return, as the incident with Gil Brady showed. He seldom picked fights—never with guns—and when one was forced on him, he made a point of fighting fairly, except when he lost his temper or found himself taken advantage of. He could be generous, compassionate, even patient, as Slim had seen when he was teaching Andy to track. There was a softness, a gentleness, about him that showed in his dealings with horses and the boy. He apparently didn't understand himself how different these things made him from the general run of drifters and gunslingers as Slim had seen them up to now—this strangely gentle gunman who seemed to yearn for a place he could call home, a place that was his, people to be his family, yet couldn't make himself believe that anyone would offer it to him and mean it "for keeps"...

Did he feel something of this strange bond too? Was he reluctant to admit it because he was afraid of being hurt again, betrayed again? And yet he wanted it, just as Jonesy had said. He'd had opportunities enough to go away and stay away—Roney Bishop, Rock Springs, Tumavaca. But always, however uneasily or reluctantly or uncertainly, he came back.

There was no denying that trouble shadowed him. It had come with him when he first rode into the yard; it sought him out, as Gil had done; it followed him. Anyone near him was bound to be caught up in it whether or no, and he was well, indeed bitterly, aware of that. It had almost certainly caused him to be deserted, cast off, abandoned in one way or another, by people he wanted to care about or trust. Or maybe they—or some of them anyway—hadn't cared enough about _him_ to make a try at persuading him to stay once he made up his mind they were better off without him. Repeated betrayal could certainly cause a man to cling to his privacy, to cultivate that reserve. Slim too had known betrayal in his life—from neighbors he had thought were his friends and would believe in him and in his father, from the girl he had believed was coming to love him, even, in a sense, from his parents, who had gone on and left him behind with a ranch and a little brother to take care of. Like Jess, he too had closed a part of himself off in reaction to those betrayals. Yet he seemed, now, to feel that hard little knot of reserve loosening, somewhere way down inside him; seemed to feel a true sympathy growing up between the two of them.

Jess must, Slim reflected, have been terribly hurt in the past, probably more than once. That he had lost a younger brother to cholera Slim knew, but he had an uneasy feeling that there were more, and more terrible, traumas littering the Texan's back trail as well. The rancher wondered if, perhaps, Jess envied the love and mutual support he saw between the other inhabitants of Sherman Ranch. He never said so, but there was a look that would come over him sometimes, a way he would bite air—

Slim had been more or less an only child for almost fifteen years before Andy was born. He'd had four sibs who'd miscarried before they could be born, and four more who'd died then or soon after, but because they had all failed to survive, they hadn't really seemed like people to him; one, the oldest, the brother who had died when Slim himself was barely two and a half, he couldn't even really say he remembered. He had understood that his parents grieved for them, and that had made him sad—but for _them,_ for Ma and Pa, not for the young lives brought to such sudden ends. There'd been Rachel Anne, who had been born a couple of months before Slim turned seven, and died before her first birthday; and Samantha, who arrived almost exactly two years after that, and died at eighteen months; and Robert, who'd been born dead the month before Samantha would have turned three... and Ben, the first one, the one who would have been only a few months older than Jess, if he'd lived.

Jess, who sometimes, softly, reluctantly, in a voice full of love and nostalgia, talked about his younger brother, the one of whom Andy reminded him... who had once or twice let slip the suggestion that there had been "a houseful of us Harpers"... who had told Slim about his "kid sister"...

Jess, who was now, apparently, as much alone in the world as Slim had been for more than half his life to date—more so, indeed, because even without brothers and sisters Slim had still had his folks...

Jess, the brother Slim should have had, the long-lost one who was so near his own age that they could look at life from something of the same spot along the way, the one who had also known the horrors of fratricidal war. The one who desperately needed to trust and be trusted, yet was afraid he'd be hurt in the first instance and had a hard time imagining that anyone would offer him the second. The one with the dark troubled past who had all but forgotten what civilized living, family, was about, yet quietly longed for it and showed that longing, perhaps without knowing he was doing it, perhaps not wanting to, afraid, shy, bitter and troubled, so often disappointed, frustrated, unjustly used... the proud, stubborn, independent one whose life had been lived, for more than half of it, with no one to stand at his side, to support him, no cushion of caring to soften the ground for him when he fell.

And that, Slim realized, was what had drawn Andy to him like a moth to flame, because Andy, God bless him, shared their mother's gift, that ability to sense the totality of a person, to know who was worth trying to save and who wasn't, who could be trusted, who should be given a second chance. It was a gift Matt Sherman had counted on throughout their married life, and never once had it led him wrong.

_I should have seen it,_ he rebuked himself. _I haven't paid half as much attention to him as I should. Sure, he's been fascinated by the stories he hears from the drifters I've had on the payroll, but he's never bonded with one the way he has with Jess. Some of them he's even shied away from—not in any really overt way, but he's been cautious and quiet around them, like he doesn't want to arouse them. Jess... he's never behaved that way with Jess. Even when Jess puts on that keepaway face of his, Andy stays near, waitin' to be noticed, ready to give comfort if Jess asks for it..._

_Ma was never once wrong about people, why should Andy be?_

_I really should have seen it. Sometimes I can be pretty dense._

_What am I gonna do when I catch up with that man? And I will catch up, I know that now. Even if he finds out in Vernal that the Green River route won't work for him, all he has to do is swing west along the south flank of the mountains and eventually he'll hit the Salt Lake valley..._

_Was there ever a cowman with such a completely exasperating top hand? I'm half tempted to sock him one right in the nose the minute I see him._

_No, he wouldn't react well to that—lucky if he didn't shoot me. Maybe just a good bear hug of relief._

_You hear me, Jess—I'm comin', and I'm not givin' up on you. Not now and not any time soon. If I have to hog-tie you across Traveller's saddle, you're comin' home..._

**SR**

**Three days earlier:**

Jess reached Vernal right around midday. The town was nestled near the center of a large green valley, on which, as he crossed it, he observed the unmistakable sign of both cattle and sheep grazing, as well as fields of grain, clover hay, and alfalfa. Coming in, as he did, from a northwesterly direction, he could make out almost straight ahead what looked like a line of rugged breaks, presumably marking the course of the Green. Off to either side spirals of chimneysmoke rose into the air, their sources hidden by the contours of the land; these were almost certainly ranchhouses, farms, or both.

A quarter-mile outside the first buildings he came upon a signboard:

_Welcome to Vernal  
Established 1861  
Population 392_

_Well, I been in smaller towns, _he thought, remembering Lampasas where he'd first met Dixie, _and they had everything I needed, so I reckon this one will._ He went on, passing the outlying structures at a slow jog. The first thing he noticed was that this wasn't a Mormon town, at least not predominantly; the business places that lined the main drag—about twenty of them—had none of the typical Mormon names, no _Seagull_ or _Bee Hive_ or _Deseret_. What was more, there was a very prominently located saloon—a big one, fully a hundred feet wide, which since most town lots in the West tended to be narrow but deep, no more than twenty or thirty feet across but extending back eighty to 120 or more, meant that somebody had been able to come up with a good fistful of cash to buy the site. The Mormons didn't believe in alcohol, and in mixed towns, where a Gentile population insisted on its liquor, they tucked their barrooms well away out of sight, or else separated them from the "proper" district by a ditch or stream. This particular saloon, which faced an almost equally large general store on the other side, was painted a vivid grass-green emphasized by white and yellow trim, and probably had to be repainted every couple of years to keep it fresh; it had two full storeys plus a false front on which, in letters four feet high, was the establishment's name: _Valley Green Saloon &amp; Restaurant, _and underneath in slightly smaller lettering, _A. Blaine, Prop._

The main street ran east to west. Jess checked, looking around, and quickly located a long windowless shed of sawn lumber, with a chain block and tackle hanging from the doorway's lintel beam, a plank ramp leading up from street level to a set of double doors that slid aside on a track, and a distinct smell of seared hoofs and scorched parings, warm ashes, smoke, hot iron, and horseflesh. From the dim interior came the rhythmic clash of hammer on anvil. Jess turned, dismounted at the foot of the ramp, and walked slowly up it, letting the echo of his boots announce his coming. The smith looked up from his work and nodded politely. "How do," said he. "Somethin' for you?"

"My horse could do with havin' his feet trimmed and new shoes all around," Jess told him. "There's good-enoughs on him right now—be obliged if you'd keep 'em for me, they ain't been on more'n a day, plenty wear left in 'em yet."

"Sure," the smith agreed. "Got nothin' on the slate can't wait—I can have the job done by closin' time, likely before. What do you want me to do with him after?"

"Send him down to the livery barn," Jess replied, "and tell 'em to rub him down and curry him and give him as much of oats as he wants. Tell 'em I'll be by for my gear soon as I light someplace."

The other nodded. "No problem. You stayin', then?"

"Overnight anyhow," said Jess. "Where can I get cleaned up?"

"Carbone's, three doors past the Valley Green," was the reply. "They'll do your laundry too, if you want."

"Good to know," Jess allowed, and was just turning back when, with a great racket of whoops and halloo's and a few skyward gunshots, a band of horsemen hit the other end of the street at a high lope and rushed on to the saloon, where they piled off their mounts and crowded inside.

Jess frowned. He'd lost track of the days while on the trail, but he didn't think it was Saturday: the streets didn't seem crowded enough to suggest that the outlying population had come in for shopping and fun. Behind him, the smith snorted and supported his guess. "Some of the Bar Comb boys. You never know when they'll take it in mind to drop in."

"Bar Comb?" Jess repeated.

"That's right. Brand's a bar with a toothed comb to the right—comes from the owner's name, John Clinton Barcombe. His spread's about thirty miles northwest, along the edge of the mountains."

"Big outfit?" Jess inquired idly.

"Big as anything on the slope," said the smith. "Mostly sheep—around fifteen thousand of 'em—but he runs cattle too, a couple thousand. Sold close to forty ton of wool at the spring clip, and drove better than two hundred head of beef up to Fort Bridger for the Army."

_Couple thousand,_ thought Jess. _If it's an open-range outfit, that'd be no more'n a dozen hands in the high season, and that's over. Shouldn't'a' kept over three or four of 'em, besides the sheepherders—not as many as just now rode in._ Somehow the thought made him uneasy. "I'll just get a change of clothes," he said aloud, "and get down to that Carbone's. Horse's name is Traveller, and he knows it."

He got a good long hot soak in an oversized tub, washed his hair and his skin, changed into clean clothes, and treated himself to a professional shave while Carbone's wife did his laundry in the shed extension tacked onto the side of the establishment. Then he crossed the street to the general store and ordered his supplies. "I'm headin' for California," he told the storekeeper. "Can I get there if I follow the Green?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'd recommend it," the other replied, and he tore a piece of smooth, heavy brown stock paper off its roll and steel cutter on top of the meat counter, spread it out beside the candy jars, took a pencil from behind his ear, and explained, sketching deftly to illustrate his words. It seemed from what he had to say that the Green River, which was a pleasant enough little stream above the Wyoming line, with a belt of cottonwoods and a gentle current, was below that point as wild as any river could be. The channel was an almost endless series of canyons; for miles on end a man in them couldn't get out, and one on the rim couldn't get down for a drink if his life depended on it. When the walls opened out in a little park, or "hole," they closed in again almost immediately, and the solid rock went up for half a mile. Below the settlement of Green River, Wyoming, were Flaming Gorge, Horseshoe Canyon, Kingfisher Canyon, then a little park, then Red Canyon, Little Brown's Hole, and Brown's Hole, rendezvous for trappers and hideout for badmen, at the bottom of which the river dived into the Uinta Mountains, through Swallow Canyon and the terrible Canyon of Lodore. Below that the canyon opened out for about a mile, in Echo Park, where the Yampa River came in; closed again for the chute through Whirlpool Canyon, widened for Island Park and a few meanders, gathered itself and bored directly through Split Mountain, literally cutting a tremendous peak in two. This having been accomplished, it left the mountains for one of its two stretches of open country in the whole thousand miles from Green River to Grand Wash, winding for eighty-seven miles through the Wonsits Valley—where Vernal was located—and receiving the waters of Ashley Fork, the Uintah, and the White River. Then it dived again through the Canyon of Desolation and Gray Canyon, to break out into its second large opening, the Gunnison Valley. Beyond this there was no crossing till Lee's Ferry, and then none again for 260 miles till Grand Wash.

"Ain't lookin' to cross it," said Jess, "just to follow it. All right, the river's at the bottom of a canyon, that don't mean I couldn't buy a mule and pack some water bags to keep me goin'."

The storekeeper pondered, then began sketching again, modifying his map. "There might be one way to do it. Green River Crossing's about a hundred miles down from where we are now, but close to half of that is canyon. Now if you follow the river about thirty miles southwest—that's as the crow flies, you understand; it's mostly bends till you hit the junction of the Uinta—you'll pass the mouth of the White and come to Willow Creek on the east bank. You follow that up till it forks and take the right-hand stream, which is Hill Creek. It leads you up the best part of a mile into the high country till you come to the source, under a peak around eighty-five miles south of here. If you bear off to the right of that peak, you'll find yourself goin' down again, and the valley you come into will lead you straight down to the Crossing. I don't say you won't hit snow at this time of year, but at least you'll have access to water. You'll be on the Ute side of the river, of course, but they're not likely to be on the prowl now; they'll be settlin' into their winter camps."

Jess watched the pencil moving deftly over the paper, nodding thoughtfully. "And what after that?"

"After that," was the reply, "you've got two options. You can turn off and head almost due west. You'll pick up the San Rafael River about fifteen miles out; take the first fork south and follow that till it turns up toward San Rafael Knob, then head southwest till you hit Muddy Creek. Follow it to the fork and turn west; that'll lead you almost to the top of the divide, and on the other side, not even three miles, you'll find a creek that takes you down to Salina, on the Sevier. From there just take the valley as it narrows; there are settlements and homesteads all the way. At Mount Carmel you can swing west through Springdale and LaVerkin, follow the Virgin River to St. George, and from there the Mormon Corridor will take you to San Diego; it's been laid out for emigrants in wagons, so a man on a horse shouldn't have any trouble. After that you just take the old Camino Real as far north as you want to go, or head up the central valley if that suits your purposes better."

"High country again, though, goin' over like that," Jess guessed.

"That's true. Which is where your other option comes in. You can stick to the Green, which past the Crossing runs through a broad high plateau, with the Gunnison Valley comin' in from the northeast—see, it spreads out like the bell of a trumpet—and the space between mountain ranges gettin' wider and wider as you go southwesterly. Sixty miles or so downstream from the Crossing the Green joins the Colorado. From there it's just under forty to the Dirty Devil River, and another twenty-five to where the river canyons begin. But if you keep on, just skirtin' the edge, another thirty-five again, you'll come to the Straight Cliffs, like a long wall reachin' out southeasterly from the mountains. You swing around the end of those and go fifteen or so and you come to the Crossing of the Fathers, where the Spanish _padres_ went over in '77 on their way back to Santa Fe. From there, if you turn west, you can stay below four thousand feet elevation and circle the end of the mountain chain, with a lot of little creeks and arroyos where you should find water underground if you don't mind diggin' for it. About a hundred twenty miles west of where you turn off is St. George, and from there you just go like I said before."

"How far is that from Salt Lake?" Jess asked.

"By the Corridor, three hundred miles or better."

Jess nodded. He didn't think anyone would have been able to unravel his trail over the Snowy Mountain road and the flats, or even find it, but if they had, they'd probably have expected him to be making for the Mormon capitol and the better-known trail. Three hundred plus miles was a good six days' travel horseback if you didn't push, and if they got no word of him in four, they'd be likely to figure they'd guessed wrong and he hadn't gone that way. Meanwhile he could join the Corridor past the point at which they'd be likely to give up, and make his way along the marked-out trail to his destination. "Seems like you know a lot about that country," he mused.

The man grinned. "I was on the survey party that mapped it, about twelve years back. That's how I earned the money to start this place."

_That's good, then,_ Jess decided. _He's tellin' me what he's really seen, not just stories he's picked up from others_. "You mind if I take this with me?" he asked, jerking a thumb at the map.

"Go ahead, I got no use for it. I've got a good location here and no plans to leave it."

Jess folded the paper and slipped it into the inner pocket of his brush jacket—he'd left his winter coat at the smithy with Trav. "I'm obliged to you. That saloon across the street—says it's a restaurant too; they serve decent grub?"

"Best steaks in town. You want to take these supplies with you?"

"No," Jess decided after a moment's thought, "I can pick 'em up first thing in the mornin'. Leastways I won't have to put in the time waitin' for you to get 'em together."

"We open at eight," the storekeeper told him, and Jess went out onto the boardwalk. The Bar Comb horses—he counted eight of them—were still at the Valley Green's rack, and he hesitated a moment, remembering that shiver of unease he'd experienced before. But he felt the need of something stronger than coffee with his meal, and after a brief internal debate he headed across the street. Why should there be any trouble? He was a stranger in these parts, and there was no reason for anyone to bother him...

**SR**

The barroom wasn't busy, except for the group from Bar Comb, which had appropriated the biggest table it could find and was happily occupied with drinks, poker, and the attentions of half a dozen girls dressed in brightly-hued silk dresses with frothy, bell-shaped skirts, underlain by a multitude of rainbow-colored petticoats, that reached just to the top of the boot, with bare shoulders and little puff sleeves. The low-cut bodices fit tightly against the breasts and around the waist in quite orthodox style, and stockings in silk, lace, or net ran down to high-heeled button boots of kid, velvet, and satin. Jewelled combs, paper or velvet flowers, and dyed ostrich plumes decorated hair bleached, hennaed, or in the case of the brunettes sprinkled with imitation diamond dust. At each corner of the room a stairway ran up to a sort of quarter-balcony fronting a curtained archway, perhaps a corridor leading to rooms along the outer side of the building. Below this, the bar stretched across the back of the room, parallel with the street outside, flanked on either side by doors that probably gave access to the private card rooms, the kitchen, and the owner's office; it was made of walnut as dark as old molasses, and to the sides of the indispensable mirror mounted behind it were two big paintings—a waterfall and lake with two deer standing in it, and a nude sitting on a rock and dangling one foot in the water below, a little brass plate on the frame proclaiming its title to be _The Day Dreamer_. Around the other walls were Western scenes in good taste, varied by prints of famous horses and actresses in signature parts.

Jess slid an eye toward the merrymakers and decided not to follow his usual custom of taking a table about midway along the side wall. _Keep your back to a wall, always,_ Dixie had said, _but __don't let yourself get cornered. Make sure you can move left or right as well as straight forward. That makes you harder to take, because anyone who wants to bottle you up needs himself and a couple of friends._ The trouble was that there were more than a couple of these, and while Jess had no real reason to think they were a danger to him, he hadn't followed his trade and survived all this time without learning when to vary his tactic. He walked quietly back to a corner table and settled there, against the solid wall at the right of the right front window, and angled his chair so he was facing the bar, not the poker table; he didn't want these boys to get the notion that he was watching them.

A bartender, seeing that the girls were occupied, came over and asked his pleasure. "Whiskey," said Jess. "A bottle. And I'll be wantin' a steak, with whatever comes along."

The bottle and glass were before him in two minutes. He poured a man-size drink, but didn't swallow any of it. Jess wasn't a heavy drinker; in his line you couldn't afford the indulgence, not money-wise so much as because of what it did to your awareness and speed. He was actually more inclined to just sit there and stare at it. Often none of the contents of the glass ever made it past his lips.

In any case, he didn't need it, not as he'd half thought he did—but he was here now and he might as well stay.

He sighed, turning the tumbler slowly between his fingers and trying not to think.

After a time a plate was set down before him with a quiet click. He looked up, expecting the bartender, and scrambled to his feet as he saw that his server was a woman. She wasn't dressed like the ones hanging all over the Bar Comb crew; she wore an entirely conventional ball gown of pale green silk, bare-shouldered but with skirt brushing the floor, elaborately draped and tied back in a bustle. There was a black velvet ribbon around her neck, fastened in front with a pearl brooch, and hung below it on a slender gold chain a delicate cameo, exquisitely carved, rimmed with small diamonds. Matched emerald bracelets were fastened over her tinted French kid evening gloves. Long dangling black onyx earrings emphasized the grace of her neck. Her hair, which was a beautiful rust-wine red, was cut in bangs almost to her eyebrows and drawn up toward the back away from her face, exposing her ears, with the ends cascading down her back in cadogan fashion, and no ornamentation except a few gold combs to hold it in place; it was very sleek and smooth and shone like oiled mahogany. She smelled of Pear's soap and Florestan Eau de Cologne.

"Sit down," she said, "and eat before it gets cold. My girls are busy, as you can see, so I decided to bring it over myself."

"Uh... yes, ma'am," said Jess, settling gingerly back into his chair. Then: " 'Your' girls?"

"Aurelia Blaine," she told him, offering her hand. "I own the Valley Green."

He remembered the name from the sign on the false front. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Aurelia. I'm J—Johnny Hart." It was an old alias of his; easy to remember, matched to his real initials, and with a surname sounding enough like his right one that he'd respond to it automatically. "Um... bein's it's your place, won't you sit and take a load off your feet?"

Aurelia Blaine's handshake was firm but not mannish. "Welcome to Vernal, Johnny Hart. New in these parts, I think?" she guessed as she pulled out a chair and flicked her skirt back.

"Yes, ma'am. Passin' through. Plannin' on California, if I can get there." He looked down at the plate. It was a big one, and so was the steak, which had fat pats of butter melting atop it and was garnished with a baked potato, stewed tomatoes, and—"Mushrooms?" Jess asked in surprise. "This time of year?"

"They're canned," the woman explained. "Don't mind me, just tuck in."

There were stewed oysters on the side, pickled beets, coleslaw, a plate holding several slices of fresh brown-crusted bread, a miniature saucer with pats of butter in it. The steak, from the taste of it, had been butter-broiled; it was one of the best he'd ever had. "Mighty good meat," he said sincerely.

Her face twitched. "I've little use for John Clinton Barcombe, but he raises good beef."

"Barcombe?" he repeated. "Same as them boys yonder works for?"

"None other," she agreed. "I wouldn't have expected a stranger to know the name."

"Saw 'em ride in," he said around his food. "Smith over the way told me whose they was."

"They're good spenders, I have to give them that," she said, "and that's about the only reason I don't bar them from the place. Personally I don't care any more for them than for their boss, though they mostly mind their manners while they're here."

Jess let his eye slide over in the direction of the big table, remembering what the smith had said about the numbers of Barcombe's stock. If he'd been telling it straight, there were too many men for the size of the ranch, at least this time of year, and they were a hardcase bunch from the looks of them, more skilled with sixgun than with rope and branding iron; he'd been around the breed enough to know. They hadn't put in a hard day's work either, not with that much zip left in them, he reflected as one of them pulled a laughing girl onto his lap and began kissing and nuzzling her until one of his friends told him to get his mind back on the game, it was his turn to bet. They came tall and short, broad and lean, but there was no fun in them, no easiness, despite their attentions to the girls; and he noticed, too, that they set a four-bit value on each white chip, which was mighty high stakes for a casual game: when Jess played payday poker at the Stockmen's Palace in Laramie, he usually played nickel-ante, and on a good night he could better his start-out money by 75%, just on that. That meant these boys had about ten times as much to begin as he did at such times—$250. That was gun wages.

_Don't matter,_ he told himself. _I ain't stayin', and they got no fight with me._

He noticed that there was one in the crowd who was a little better dressed than his companions—a shield-style shirt in fire-red linen with frilly black silk sleeve garters, bell-shaped buckskin trousers in the Mexican mode with pearl buttons down the sides, a fancy black leather vest, a silver-mounted Zuni band around his hat. He was slight but muscular, with a rosy-beige skin tone like Andy's, gray-blue eyes and ash-brown hair; maybe twenty-three, which was on the low side of the overall average age for the group, and he was keeping more than half an eye on Jess's table, though most of his attention seemed to be for Aurelia Blaine. "You got an admirer over there, ma'am?" he asked quietly. "Seems he's got an eye for your back."

"The youngster in the red shirt, with the Zuni hatband?" she guessed. "That's Barcombe's nephew—his sister's boy; J.D. Annison, his name is. No, it's nothing personal—not the way you think. He just... has the idea that his uncle has a claim on me."

He tilted an eyebrow. "Not to stir around in what ain't my business, but... does he?"

Again he saw that peculiar twitch cross her fine-carved features. Close to, he estimated her age at mid-thirties, but she'd taken good care of herself, and her makeup, though discreet, emphasized her best features and concealed any coarseness of skin. "Not any more," she answered grimly, and changed the subject. "You talk like a Texan, Johnny Hart. Am I right?"

"Yes, ma'am." If a man had asked, it would have been impolite, but even Western men gave more leeway to the opposite sex. "Panhandle country. Ain't been back there since right after the war, though. Nothin' there for me now." _Nor any place else neither..._ he thought, _not no more..._

She caught the implication beneath the words, and deftly steered the conversation to other things—whether he'd been to California before, what news he'd heard that might not have made it here. As he was cleaning up the last of his meal, the bartender came over with a slice of canned-peach pie, and he found he had just about enough room for that too. "You said you were passing through," Aurelia Blaine remembered. "Staying overnight?"

"Meanin' to," he agreed. "What's a good place to get a room?"

"There are seven of them for rent upstairs, top of the right-hand stairway," she said, and smiled a little at the twitch of his mouth. "Just beds. Nobody in them."

"I'll think on it," he said diplomatically. "Got a long trail in front of me, don't need nobody down here whoopin' it up while I'm tryin' to sleep."

"I understand," Aurelia agreed. "If you decide to give it a try, Ned at the bar has the room keys."

"I'll hold it in mind."

She flicked a glance back over her shoulder; the Bar Comb boys were still the only customers in the place aside from Jess himself. "Well, I've got work to do in the office; I'd better be getting back to it. I've enjoyed talking with you, Johnny Hart. If you're still here in the morning, join me for breakfast." He stood politely as she rose, and carefully avoided following her with his eyes as she crossed the room and disappeared through one of the doors flanking the bar. The bartender came over to collect his dishes.

Jess sighed tiredly and eased back in his chair, again playing idly with his glass. Up until now, he had been living on the trail, and the process of doing that—of concealing his sign, finding water and meat, choosing and making his camps, and keeping alert to his surroundings—had occupied his mind to the near exclusion of everything else. But now, warm and dry and fed, he had time at last to look back and to pay attention to what was going on inside him, and he realized just how lost and helpless he felt, how deep and total was his despair at being forced to leave the ranch. Never in ten long years—never since the Bannisters had destroyed his home and family—had he felt so lonely, so heartsick. And not even then had he known such hopelessness, because at least then he had had his resolve to kill Bannister to keep him going. This time, he had no one to blame but himself.

It wasn't that he regretted killing the kid, exactly. Jonesy had been right; Warren Hamry had asked for it. He just wished that, if it had had to happen, it could have been somebody without family to care what happened to him. For himself, Jess didn't care so much. It wasn't exactly that he wanted to die, more that he didn't really have much to live for (short of the hoped-for eventual confrontation with Frank Bannister), that death held few terrors for a man whose life had already served up anguish and pain and near misses enough for three ordinary ones, and that ever since the fire he'd had the feeling that he was living on borrowed time anyway. But he knew, now, that the one thing he had most feared, ever since he'd first drifted into Sherman Ranch, was that the kindness and acceptance of the three who lived there would be repaid in their blood, if ever his past caught up with him there. He couldn't—he wouldn't—allow that, no matter what it cost him. No matter how it came close to ripping the heart out of him to go, no matter that the grief and despair seemed to choke the very breath out of his lungs, no matter that he felt as if the life was draining out of him drop by slow aching drop, he knew that going was his only option. At least—remembering what Hal Owen had taught him, years ago, about there always being a choice—the only option he could live with.

He felt alone—and lonely, which isn't the same thing; desolate and unhappy and disappointed at the ruin of the hopes he hadn't dared consciously admit to; grief-stricken and ashamed, bitter, and above all angry. Angry at that fool kid for pushing it even after he'd been offered the chance to back away honorably; angry at whoever had given him the notion that there was something glamorous and desirable about having a reputation with a gun; angry even at Slim and the others for taking him in and giving him so much, because if they hadn't, he wouldn't be feeling so bad now. Angry most of all at himself. He was supposed to be a professional. He should have been able to avoid killing the kid. He'd intended to. He'd meant to just cripple him. Why hadn't he?

He abruptly grabbed the whiskey tumbler off the tabletop and bolted down the contents in one gulp. It was good whiskey, smooth and warm, but the burn of it on top of the stew of emotions left him shaking. He scarcely noticed the figure that had crossed the room to stand facing him over the table—until he heard the voice. "Jess Harper."

His head shot up. It was the young fellow in the red linen shirt and Mexican trousers, the one Miss Aurelia had called J.D. Annison. He was standing with a hand—his right hand—resting lightly on the back of the chair the woman had sat in, directly across from Jess. His clothes might be a little flashy—and at that, a man coming to town often chose his "best" outfit, so that didn't necessarily mean anything—but his gun was a simple, workmanlike one, not too unlike the plain Colt Jess had left behind at Sherman Ranch: a converted Whitney Navy Colt .36, perhaps not as powerful as the commoner .44 or .45, but quite adequate at short distances, with a stag handle and dark blue metal, carried in a plain, smooth-surfaced, undecorated holster tied down with a buckskin loop.

"Who's Jess Harper?" Jess growled, his voice rough from the whiskey.

"You are," Annison replied mildly. "I've been sittin' over at our table tryin' to place you, and now I know."

"No, you don't," Jess retorted. "My name's Johnny Hart."

Annison shook his head. "I was in Salt Lake with my uncle in '66 when you brought Roy Wade's body in to the U.S. Marshal for the bounty. The talk got around town pretty fast that he'd been shot in the front, three bullets inside the span of a hand. There's not many men that can get off three shots that fast and accurate, and less of 'em your age and with your coloring."

"Maybe," Jess admitted, "but you didn't say none. And _I_ said my name's Johnny Hart."

The young man smiled faintly. "You can insist all you want to, but I can be just as stubborn. I got a good look at you outside the marshal's office. I know. Now tell me, how much is French payin' you? Because my uncle will double it, whatever it is."

Jess felt as if he had slipped a stirrup, which is about the same as missing the top step in the dark. Either way you don't have the secure underpinning you ought to, and can't go on to properly do what you set out for. "Never heard of no French," he retorted, entirely truthfully. "Ain't for hire, neither. Leave me alone, Mister, I ain't in no mood for this." He didn't believe Annison was trying to push him into something, like Hamry had; the other had as much as admitted it. But whatever his game was, Jess was in no humor to play it.

Behind them, the bartender slipped quietly out from behind the counter and vanished through the door at the right-hand end. A moment or two later he reappeared, followed by Aurelia Blaine, and reassumed his former place while the woman stood just inside the doorway, her eyes, like those of Annison's companions and their girls, on the confrontation in the corner. No one noticed her arrival.

Annison grinned. "If you're tryin' to hold me up for a better offer, it won't work. Whatever else French is, he's not a piker, and he believes in payin' what a man is worth. Twice whatever you're gettin' is good money and you know it. Now unruffle your feathers and let's talk."

"Let's not," Jess rumbled, and came to his feet in a surge, kicking his chair aside with a clatter. "I told you twice, my name's Johnny Hart and I ain't lookin' for work, least of all gun work. Now _back off."_

Annison's face didn't change. His right hand stayed on the comb of the chair and his left eased down to slip the tiedown of his holster and release the buckle. The rig fell to the floor with a slap. "You won't draw on me, Harper. You don't shoot unarmed men; everybody knows that. Settle down and let me buy you a drink. You're a businessman, so am I. Let's go from there."

Jess kicked the chair out of his way as the whiskey mingled with the anger and the heat came up in him, burning and hungry and somehow terribly satisfying. Annison's smile slipped a little as he came out from the corner and began slowly moving forward. "I told you, I ain't lookin' for work. But trouble... if that's what you want, why shouldn't I oblige you?"

Annison backed away, his right hand raised. "Ease off, Harper."

"_Hart!"_ Jess barked. "Johnny Hart! Are you sayin' I'm a liar?"

The other was beginning to look worried now. "I never said that. Harper, Hart, whatever you want to be called it's okay with me. Listen, we got no quarrel, not yet—" He was backing up, retreating steadily before Jess's slow, irresistible advance.

"Too late," said Jess softly. "You should'a' let me be when I told you to." He felt taller somehow, brighter, burning. The detached thinking part of his brain knew that was the whiskey, but he no longer cared.

Chairs scraped around at the big table as the two of them passed, Annison backing toward the bar, Jess following at the same measured pace; but none of the other Bar Comb riders made a move to interfere. Ned, the bartender, put his hand on the sawed-off shotgun underneath the counter; Aurelia Blaine saw the movement and lifted two fingers to stop him.

Ten feet from the bar Annison decided to make his stand. Jess walked right into him and Annison pulled back a fist and swung. But Jess sidestepped and Annison missed and spun off balance, his back halfway to Jess, who hit him on the side of the head, a solid blow that knocked him into the bar. He struck it back-first and bounced forward, off balance, catching a boot-toe on some tiny irregularity in the flooring, and Jess caught him as he fell forward with a right that straightened him up. He held Annison braced against the bar and hit him five swinging blows, right and left alternately, then let him sag and fall. He stood a moment, trembling with the unleashed intensity of his emotions, almost entirely forgetting that he wasn't alone.

Until he heard the sound of chairs being pushed back.

He spun, hand dropping to the ivory butt of his Colt. The other seven men had all risen to their feet; their girls had made a frothy rush for the far corner of the room and were watching in horrified fascination. "That wasn't a smart thing to do, friend," said the foremost of the group evenly.

"Ain't nobody ever accused me of bein' too smart," Jess retorted, his eyes flicking from left to right and back again—the speaker might be the natural leader of the seven, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd be the first to make a move. "But you heard. I told him to back off and he didn't. He's lucky to be still breathin' after the way he provoked me. You know that same as me." His gaze ranged briefly over their shoulders. It was still light outside the big many-paned front windows, which were painted white halfway up for privacy; going on sundown from the quality of that light, but still much too long till darkness fell. He could have wished otherwise; Dixie had taught him what to do indoors after dark, if he was facing more than one man—or even if he only thought there was a chance of others jumping into the fight. _Get the light,_ he'd said. _Plunging, blinding darkness has disarmed more desperate gunmen than all the daylight stands ever made. If you can keep your word-strings short, and force your play before all eyes get used to the darkness, you have some chance, even against odds of four or five to one. Remember, too, that it's second nature for an outnumbered man to get his back against a wall—and your enemies will know that. __You__ know where you are, and that's all that matters; anyone except you is a target. Get low, but stay out in the middle of the floor; they'll be looking for you around the perimeter. And if you want to hide your gunflash, take off your hat, hold it in front of the muzzle of your gun, and fire through the crown. The other fellows may figure the angle of your shot pretty accurately in a minute or two, but maybe not the height or the exact position._

Jess knew that in a close fight, like this one, any odds higher than about four to one were pretty sure suicide, unless you could even them by just such a stratagem as Dixie had described, and maybe make it to a door or window under cover of the darkness. He didn't expect to live more than another fifteen minutes, probably less. The prospect saddened him, not so much for his own sake as because he suddenly realized there were a lot of things he should have said to Andy and Jonesy and Slim. Then Texas pride asserted itself. He accepted the inevitable, but he was resolved to take at least two or three of them with him.

"We know that," the speaker agreed, "but it don't change that he's kin to the man who pays us. Maybe what he did was stupid, but we've still got obligations."

"Make your play, then," Jess invited calmly.

He had expected one of the septet to draw, maybe more than one. He hadn't expected them to come at him in a single concerted charge like a herd of stampeding buffalo.

He went for his gun on reflex, but something hit his wrist hard and his fingers released automatically; the Colt hit the floor with a clatter and was gone. He lunged forward, remembering another of Dixie's lessons: _The only way to win any kind of fight is to attack with what you have. That's one of the secrets of success: strike at the first sign of trouble—never give your enemy time to plan or prepare..._

He hit them shoulder first, head tucked, arms crossed over his chest, lashing out to either side as he bored into them. Exactly what happened after that he never clearly recalled. He heard a gun go off and felt a blow above his right knee, a momentary numbness, then the familiar sick weariness that told him he'd been shot. He twisted and kicked as the weight of his enemies overbore him, forcing him back into the brass rail at the base of the bar. Somebody grunted explosively as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Then there was a forearm in his throat like a bar of iron, pressing into his windpipe, blocking off his air. Dizziness swept over him like the dark wings of a giant bat. His hand found the neck of a spitton, wrapped around it and brought it sideways in a clubbing motion; it rang like a gong as it hit something. But either he'd missed his primary assailant or he was too far gone for the blow to do him any good. He could feel the swirling vortex of blackness sucking him down, and then it gave way to silence and there was nothing.

The spokesman of the seven—the one who had choked him down—rose slowly to his feet, looking Jess over, then turning to assess the damages on his own side. One of his men was out cold, besides J.D.; another was bent over and gagging as he tried to suck air into his lungs with a half-paralyzed diaphragm. Nobody was dead, or even seriously injured. "Get a bucket or something," he said. "Get J.D. and Mayes on their feet."

"What about _him?"_ asked one of those still functional. "He's bleeding."

"He won't die of it, not yet," said the first, after a cursory glance at Jess's wound. "He belongs to J.D."

Somebody fetched the swamper's bucket and doused the two unconscious men awake. J.D. came up spluttering and furious. "Where is he? I'll show him—"

"Take it easy," the leader told him. "He's not goin' anywhere. Think a minute. You thought he was somebody French had hired. If that's true, it means French is takin' it to another level. Your uncle will want the details, and there's only two men can give 'em to him."

J.D. took a moment or two to get his breath and shake the water off his hat. "That's right," he agreed then. "Okay. Somebody search him."

Hands probed through Jess's vest and produced his battered old leather billfold. The finder passed it to J.D., who sifted quickly through it and grunted in satisfaction. "There, now. Didn't I say he was Jess Harper?" He waved an envelope under the leader's nose. It was creased and dirty from much handling, and there were several forwarding stamps speckled across it, but the addressee's name could still be made out.

"That's no local postmark," pointed out the man who'd found the billfold. "Looks like someplace in Wyoming." (It was, in fact, the last letter Jess had gotten from Vic Stoddard; he'd never gotten around to disposing of it.) "Anything in there from French?"

Pause while J.D. continued his investigations. "No. But that doesn't mean anything. He could've been provided with directions how to get there and told to destroy the letter afterward. And look here. Fifty, sixty... seventy-five dollars cash." It was the change Jess had gotten from the blacksmith and the storekeeper, though at least half his money was still hidden in the secret pocket in the lining of his left boot. "Probably what's left of whatever expense money French sent him." He glared at Jess's unmoving form. "You're right. Uncle John will want to have a talk with him. Find some place to salt him away till morning, and make sure he's tied up securely. He's got to have come in here on a horse—somebody find it." He paused a moment, then looked around until he located Jess's lost Colt, bent to scoop it off the floor, balanced it in his hand, removed the Whitney from his own holster, tucked it through his belt, and dropped Jess's into its place. "Don't stand there, get movin'," he ordered.

In the minutes that followed, his companions were too absorbed in securing their captive to notice when Aurelia Blaine threw an emerald-green shawl of Chinese silk about her shoulders and slipped out the back door, past the double outhouse, into the warm red-orange light of the setting sun, and waved frantically to a boy on an old work mare chivvying a herd of dairy cows in from the grazing land outside the town. "Hardy!" she called, and then put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly.

The boy checked and waited as she hurried up. "You need somethin', Miss Aurelia?" he inquired politely, removing his disreputable straw hat.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Take your cows back to their owners, then go to the livery and get Velvet—" that was her black mare; "I'll send down and have her saddled for you. Ride for the Box Fifteen as fast as you can. Tell them seven or eight of Barcombe's boys will be taking a prisoner to his place, probably through Big Salt Canyon, some time tomorrow, someone they think is working for French and his family, though he claims he isn't—they'll probably leave here as soon as they can see decently. Tell them the man is wounded—not badly, but he hasn't seen a doctor yet. There's ten dollars for you, Hardy; this may mean the saving of his life."

"Ten—!" Hardy echoed, his eyes widening. "Yes, ma'am! I'll see to these cows and get right gone, you bet!"

**SR**

Climbing slowly out of the black well of unconsciousness, Jess found himself in a small, barren room, walls plastered with brewery and distillery advertising sheets and out-of-date calendars, furnishings limited to a few packing crates, an Army cot on which he lay, some mops and brooms stacked in one corner, buckets arrayed at their feet, and a single lamp in a bracket on the wall beside the door, the wick turned just high enough to give decent visibility. His years on the range had given him a keen sense of time, and his internal clock told him it must be past ten P.M.

He was on his side; he managed to get an elbow under him and push himself up, then to wriggle backward on the cot till his back touched a wall behind him. Because he had been choked down rather than hit over the head, he retained a clear and accessible memory of what had happened, though it took a few minutes for him to sort through it and assemble an approximate chronology of the fight. He remembered, too, the events of earlier in the day—his arrival in Vernal, his talk with the storekeeper, the Valley Green, Aurelia Blaine. He looked around in the dim light. _Swamper's room, I reckon,_ he decided.

His wrists and ankles were bound, and it didn't take him long to realize that his gunbelt and boot knife were missing. The absence of his spurs took a little longer to register. _They ain't dumb, these boys, _he thought. _They ain't takin' no chances I could use a rowel point to nudge one of these knots loose, or cut the cords_.

He eventually realized why his right leg was aching. The wound hadn't been treated, and he could feel the muscle cramping painfully as it tried to rid itself of the lead lodged in it. But at least it didn't appear to be bleeding; he'd been unconscious and still long enough for it to clot. That was good; he might be somewhat weakened by the initial loss of blood, but he was probably in no danger of imminent death. He didn't even feel feverish.

He examined his options. If he could free himself, he might have some chance of ambushing anyone who came in after him, but the door was almost certainly locked, and even if he could get out, he was unarmed, outnumbered (he still wasn't sure how many of them had been involved in bringing him down), compromised by blood loss and pain, and he'd have to find either Traveller (who'd almost certainly been moved by now) or a hiding place.

It occurred to him to wonder why he hadn't been killed, as he'd expected, instead of simply rendered helpless. _This can't be from what happened back home, _he thought, scarcely noticing the word his mind reflexively used. _The smith knew these boys, said they was local. Miss Aurelia said the same. Anyways, how'd anyone'a known I'd come this way? How'd they'a got here ahead of me, havin' to come over from Colorado? Maybe farther, if they was hired. And nobody'd hire that big a bunch just to take one man, not even me—I'm good, but I ain't __that__ good. Plus which, if it was that, why've they tied me up? Why didn't they just goad me into a fight and take me down? It's gotta be somethin' else. _Slowly he replayed the encounter in the barroom, mentally re-examining every word, every look. _They know who I am, but they reckon I'm here a-purpose, not just passin' through. Somethin' must be goin' on in these parts that I don't know about. Dang. I've rode right into it without meanin' to. Now what do I do?_

Slim often chided him for his hot temper, but Jess was actually a very practical and pragmatic man, especially when it came to fighting; after all, his life was at stake—sometimes other people's lives too. After some consideration, he decided it would be best if he got whatever rest he could and tried to build up his strength. Clearly they had something planned for him or they'd have killed him where he lay. Eventually they'd have to take him out of here; once he got into the open he might see an opportunity. Schooling himself to ignore the pain in his leg, he lay back against the wall and closed his eyes. In the Confederate Army he'd learned to grab his sleep at all times and under all sorts of conditions. Before long he drifted off, though his sleep was restless and uncomfortable as it had been since he left Laramie, full of dreams—not the nightmares he knew so well, but nostalgic dreams of the friends he had made there, the good times, even the work.

He was awakened by the metallic rattle of a key in a lock, and shoved himself up again, then eased his legs over the side of the cot and sat up as the door opened. Two men came in; he recognized one as the Bar Comb spokesman, and wondered idly what had become of young Annison.

Seeing that he was conscious, the spokesman drew his sixgun and held it easily, pointed at him. "Keep still and don't make trouble, Harper, and you may just come out of this alive. Mayes, free his feet."

Jess knew better than to buck odds like these in his condition. He remained motionless, his face devoid of expression, as the second man produced a pocketknife and cut the thongs that secured his ankles. "Up," the spokesman ordered.

Jess took a careful breath. "Maybe it's slipped your notice, but I got a bullet in my leg. I ain't sure I can keep my balance with my hands tied like this."

The other pondered this for a moment, then nodded. "That's a point. We'd have to unfasten them in any case if we want you to stay in your saddle—you've got a long ride ahead of you. All right, Mayes. Lean forward, Harper."

Jess obeyed, thinking about what the man had said and integrating it with what he knew from yesterday. A long ride. The blacksmith had said that the Bar Comb spread was thirty miles northwest, along the edge of the mountains. That would qualify as a ride of some magnitude, especially for a wounded man. They must be planning to take him to their boss. Annison had thought he'd been hired by someone named French; had offered double pay if he'd come over to Barcombe. He hadn't, so now they would want to know whatever he knew about French and his plans. Of course he didn't know anything. So very likely the only chance he had for survival was to somehow escape before they could get him where they were going.

His wrists were freed; he brought his hands around in front of him with slow care, massaging the circulation back into his hands, gently rotating his shoulders to ease the stiffness out of them. His hat was lying atop one of the packing crates; he reached out for it, settled it on his head, then cautiously got to his feet, bracing one hand on the frame of the cot, sucking in breath as the wound yelped protestingly at him. Moving at a slow, limping shuffle, he walked forward, past the spokesman and his gun, sensing the second man, Mayes, falling in behind him. Beyond the door was a corridor with a door at one end, backed by iron plates and secured by two sturdy bolts, and at the other a second door, standing open. He turned that way, putting out one hand to brace himself against the corridor wall as he moved. He passed through the door and found himself in what he recognized as the Valley Green barroom, though the chairs were stacked and there was no sign even of the swamper, let alone the bartender or the girls.

Mayes circled around him to the main entrance, unlocked the inner storm-doors and stepped through, holding one of the batwings aside. Jess understood that he was to follow, and did, still moving slowly and cautiously, hissing between his teeth every so often as the wound twinged. Stepping out onto the boardwalk, he found, as he had expected, that it was morning—very early morning, probably no later than seven o'clock, to judge by the angle of the sun and the fact that none of the business doors he could see were open.

Five or six mounted men were waiting in the street, two of them holding the reins of a pair of unfamiliar horses, a third those of Traveller, who was fully saddled and bore all Jess's baggage, including his rifle in the boot and his gunbelt slung across the pommel, though his Colt wasn't in the holster. He wasn't left long in the dark regarding it; J.D. Annison pushed away from the awning column against which he'd been leaning, and as he moved Jess saw that the gun in his plain holster had not a stag handle but a familiarly contoured ivory one. _Reckon you ain't figured out yet them buttplates was shaped custom to my hand,_ he thought. _They won't suit you no better'n they done Pete—he found that out; the way I heard it, one reason he got took in Laramie was he tried to draw and couldn't get a proper grip._

"You should have taken my offer when you had the chance, Harper," Annison told him. "After my uncle gets through with you, you won't be getting any others."

Jess didn't respond, not even to protest his identity; he guessed easily enough that he'd been searched while he was unconscious—it was what he would have done had their positions been reversed—though he could tell from the way his vest hung that they'd returned his billfold to its place afterward. "Let's don't waste time," he suggested.

Annison tilted his head a moment, clearly surprised at his victim's unshaken self-possession. "Get on your horse," he ordered.

Jess eased his way carefully down the steps, his eyes alert. He realized that it wasn't Trav's reins that were being held after all, but a lead rope that had been passed around the bay's throatlatch; the reins were knotted up over the pommel. He scanned the group quickly, noticing just how each man was positioned, how far apart from one another they were, how alert they seemed. It was, after all, still very early, and they'd been drinking yesterday; might even have drunk still more to celebrate their victory over him. _Get in the saddle, _he decided, _then grab a hold of that lead rope and yank it out of his hand—maybe pull him off his horse, that could foul a couple of the others—if these boys are what I figure, they won't be so good with rifles... all I need is to get maybe sixty yards down that street and I got a chance... that won't take but about ten seconds, Trav's had all night to rest, been grained—I can see somebody's curried him, that means Annison and his friends left him at the stable...men on startled movin' horses can't shoot straight, the only ones I'd be in any danger from is Annison and them other two that come for me..._

Trav snorted softly, catching the smell of Jess's blood on his jeans. "Whoa, boy," Jess soothed him. "Easy, now..." He moved slowly into position, facing toward the bay's tail, his left shoulder approximately even with the midpoint of the animal's neck, and bent forward to catch the near stirrup in his right hand and twist it halfway around, holding it. With his left hand he reached up and gathered the reins, holding the off one in a shorter grip so that as Trav started to move he would swing naturally under his ascending rider. None of these boys was familiar enough with him to expect his customary Indian-style hop, and they waited patiently while he inserted the tip of his boot into the stirrup, releasing his handhold of it as he caught the horn with his rein hand, grimacing as he pushed off with his injured leg— _Now—_

His right hand shot over Trav's withers, fingers curving under the lead rope, wrapping it a turn around his hand and yanking back hard as his body hit and settled, bracing with both feet deep in the stirrups, enduring the sharp shaft of pain that lanced up his wounded leg. Trav reared at the familiar signal of Jess's leg pressure, and the man holding him yelled in surprise and came off his horse in a sprawling tumble, rolling frantically to get away from the flying hooves of both the bay and his own startled mount, which backed rapidly into the two behind it—

It almost worked; would have worked, if not for Annison. The other two hesitated to shoot, partly because he was between them and Jess, partly because if they missed they might hit one of their own fellows. Annison lacked either limiting factor. He jumped, not for Jess, but for Traveller's head, using the height of the raised boardwalk to launch himself, and seized the bay's bit, yanking him around, dragging his head down. As the horse's body swung back, Annison reached around and brought his left fist against Jess's leg, striking it scarcely a half-inch above the wound. Jess let out a strangled cry as the blow moved the bullet in the muscle and a warm blossom of blood burst to the surface; he reeled and almost fell, a curtain of color-shot darkness dropping briefly across his eyes. All that kept him in the saddle was the strength and reflexes that permitted him to sleep safely there while his horse ambled on undirected. It was enough. Someone cracked him on the wrist with a gun barrel and his grip on the lead rope loosened. Someone else caught hold of that arm and yanked it back painfully. There was a moment of swirling confusion, and then they had a length of rawhide around his wrists and were lashing them to the saddlefork. He sagged a moment against the bonds, his own weight pulling the knots tighter. Slowly the commotion died away, and Annison let go of Traveller's head and dropped back to earth.

"Think you're smart, don't you?" he grated. "We'll see about that. Bring him along," he ordered, raising his voice. "I'm takin' the shortcut over the Grindstones and let Uncle John know what he's up against." As Jess's vision cleared and he got his head up, he saw the young man swinging astride a flax-maned chestnut horse and spurring away toward the west end of the street.

The men on foot caught up their uneasy mounts and got astride; dizzy though he was, Jess saw that they knew how to flank a prisoner—one man on either side, one behind, one out front with Traveller's lead rope, and the remaining three thrown out at the points of a triangle. "Let's go," the spokesman ordered.

As Trav moved forward under him, Jess got just a brief sight of Aurelia Blaine standing in the half-open doorway, holding the batwing aside with one hand, the other clutching the throat of a blue cashmere dressing gown. He would have sworn she let go of it and blew him a kiss...

**SR**

His captors led him roughly northwestward, out of the valley and up a rising slope into a wide east-west depression bordered by the mesa lands on one side and the edge of the mountain range on the other. The latter were deeply incised by streams, and the party presently turned up one of them, which had cut a canyon that grew gradually deeper as they ascended it. Ahead, heavily forested slopes alternated with vertical stretches of rock, ranging through the rich warm colors of the spectrum to mellow blends of green, blue, lilac, pearl, amethyst, and purple, their hues shifting and changing as the sun rose higher and began its swing around to the south. Above these in turn the barren peaks rose boldly.

The canyon slanted up and eastward; sometimes the horses' hooves plashed through the water of the stream that had cut it, other times they thumped softly on dry ground as the party rode along the banks. Slowly Jess's head cleared, though his leg throbbed painfully. The wound was still bleeding, slowly and sullenly, leaching away his strength and his ability to think clearly and move quickly. He knew that if he couldn't contrive an escape soon—before nightfall, for choices—he'd be too weak to make good his getaway.

Like most Western men, with their broad-brimmed hats, Jess generally bent his gaze on a level, not looking up unless he wanted to check the weather or scan the sky for buzzards. The same, of course, was true of his captors, which was no doubt why they weren't aware of the ambush until it was sprung. Suddenly the quiet clopping of hooves against the surface of the trail gave way to the spiteful crackling of Winchesters, underlain by the occasional heavy boom of a Spencer, and a chaotic racket of shouts, screams, and startled whinnies.

Jolted back to full awareness by the noise, Jess looked around wildly, just in time to see the man leading Traveller pitch out of the saddle, dropping the lead rope from a relaxing hand. The cordon around him had broken up as the men scattered in frantic search for cover. Jess, with his hands bound, couldn't reach the reins, but Traveller was trained to respond to leg pressure and voice command; so, with a gasp, he began working with knee and heel— "C'mon, boy, let's get out of here—"

Traveller turned, a bit clumsily, as if not quite sure what his master wanted—he probably wasn't, being used to spurs—and broke into a jolting trot; Jess clung desperately to the horn and ducked down, trying to offer a smaller target. Then a fleeing riderless horse bolted across the bay's path and he lurched and reared. Jess's weight, tethered as it was to the pommel, was too much sudden strain for the cinch; he felt it giving way, tried to kick free but was too drained to completely succeed, felt the saddle sliding, felt the rear skirts hit the ground, then felt himself overbalancing, falling backward. His head struck something hard, probably a small rock half-buried in the earth, and the saddle rolled half over him as he went limp, its momentum pulling him after it as it angled across his chest, its forty pounds of mass bruising ribs and breastbone painfully, driving the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe, his head was spinning. He fought to hold onto his senses, but it was no good. The noise faded, the world gave way to still blackness.

The next thing of which he was aware was a silence so profound it almost echoed, broken by the scuff of feet on a firm surface, the occasional nervous stamp and snort of a horse. He hadn't been out so long that he didn't remember what had happened. An ambush. Utes?

Something prodded his leg, then a hand fell on his shoulder and turned him. Jess squinted up at the backlit figure, unable to make out details against the sunglare. "Hey! Over here, I found him!" the man was shouting—in English.

They weren't Utes, then. But they were still bushwhackers. Uneasy, he tried reflexively to push up, but the weight of the saddle held him back. He didn't feel well at all—aching all over, bewildered, and weak and dizzy from blood loss and pain. He felt as if he might pass out again at any moment—and he didn't want to pass out. He wanted to know what had just happened and why.

He tried to reason it out. An ambush of men who had been holding him captive. From the silence, it seemed he might be the only one of the party left alive. Did that mean these unknowns were on his side? Why?

He felt a presence close beside him, and then the cool kiss of steel against his skin as a knife carefully parted his bonds. "Easy, now..." Someone slid an arm behind his shoulders and half lifted him. "Here, drink this..." It was water, and far from cool, but he sucked at it eagerly. "Careful, not too much." He was dimly aware of converging footsteps and the gentle ring of spurs, of the shadows of several people falling across him, and heard what he thought was an exclamation of surprise—"Well, I'll be dipped and shorn!"

"He's bleeding, Pa," someone said.

"Yeah, I see that. Better not put him on a horse. Tommy, you see if you can stop it, then make a drag. George, Harry, round up the horses. Charlie, you fetch ours down. Phil, catch his, he'll be wantin' it, and see what you can rig up for this saddle. Jack, Mark, stay behind a spell and find someplace to dispose of these bodies, and make sure you search 'em first."

_All them his sons? _Jess wondered mazily. _That's even more boys than us Harpers had. _Then he wondered why it should matter to him. It _didn't _matter to him. What mattered was finding out who they were and why they'd helped him. He tried to summon the will to call out to them, to pose the question, but he was feeling worse and worse with each passing moment, sick and strengthless. Exhausted, he slumped across the saddle and let the darkness take him down to a place where there was no more pain, no more loneliness, nothing to have to think about.

**SR**

Slim and Alamo came out of the pass at an easy walk, the chestnut hesitating now and again but otherwise moving freely, the wound on his leg well closed after three days' rest in the little valley. They crossed the end of the basin that intervened between the range and the sloping mesa lands, descended the latter and followed the faint trace of the road toward the town.

As he'd done before stopping in South Pass City, Slim was thinking where (other than lodgings for man or beast) to best find word of his missing ranchhand. Jess might dress like a cowboy, he might not be as physically notable as Slim with his unusual height, but he was a man people noticed, just the same. He had a distinctive face, an air—a "way"—about him, and then there was that low-slung ivory-handled gun. Most of all, Slim knew, women noticed him. They teased each other about that sometimes. So Slim made up his mind to concentrate here, as he had before, on three main sources. First, saloon girls; Jess might put on his "keepaway" face with men, but he was too Southern to be discourteous to a woman—and they'd take note of him. Second, stablehands; not stable-owners (who, regardless of what the more prim-and-proper citizens might think of them, were men of property and therefore had a certain status), but stablehands, who, like saloon swampers, fell into a class most people tended to ignore. Jess wouldn't, because of his love for horses; he'd notice how Traveller was being cared for, or not, and he wouldn't hesitate to react appropriately. And third, bar-flies. They might indulge too freely, but they saw and heard everything, because no one thought them consequential enough to keep quiet around them. And, as Slim's father had said, _Great truths are often spoken while under the influence._

The sun was poised above the western horizon as if thinking seriously about dipping behind it. Out of the gathering blue to his left, Slim made out movement. He checked, and it resolved into a kid of perhaps ten, a disreputable straw hat slanted at a jaunty angle on tow-colored hair that needed barbering, riding bareback on an old work mare and herding some twenty head of milk cows toward the town—Jerseys and Guernseys and even some range cows. He wore a ragged denim shirt and tattered knee-length pants beneath which black woollen stockings and shoes with dented copper plates on the toes could be seen, but his jacket was almost new, a blanket-lined canvas one of cowboy cut.

Slim looked over the congregation of cattle and smiled. "You must be quite a hand to move a big trail herd like that all by your lonesome," he said.

The boy gave him a sideways look. "You're funnin' me, I reckon, but herdin' these cows is my job. I take 'em out to graze every mornin' after the folks that own 'em finish their milkin', and fetch 'em back again come evenin', and I get two cents a day for each cow. My ma takes in washin', so the money helps out."

"Sort of late in the year for that kind of work, isn't it?" asked Slim, genuinely curious.

Headshake. "They tell me that up higher in the mountains, the summers are short and the winters are cold and long, but down here in the lowlands the weather's mostly plumb pleasant. We don't get but a few really hot or cold days in a year."

"Two cents a day per cow," Slim mused. "If they give you Sundays off, that's... let me see... close to $125 a year. Yes, I can see how it would mount up. Worth a good jacket to you, looks like."

"This?" The boy ran his thumb down the lapel of the garment. "No, this was a present from Miss Aurelia. She owns the Valley Green, and I do errands for her sometimes."

Slim looked the herd over again. In his youth he'd known a couple of town kids who'd held down similar jobs, and despite his bantering tone he knew that the youngster probably earned every penny of his pay. It's as easy to herd a Ladies' Missionary Society as it is a bunch of milk cows. Steers and range cattle will hold together in a herd, and each herd usually has one leader who does all the thinking. But each milk cow has a mind of her own, and each will want to do something different. A big herd of beef cattle will string out for a mile or more one behind another like elephants on parade, but dairy cattle—unless they all belong to the same owner and are accustomed to spending all their time together—have no more idea of trailing than so many jackrabbits. Most have been petted or spoiled by the people who own them, and they get personalities, like humans. Some are docile and some are cranky; some are clever and some are dumb; some are fat and lazy, others skinny and nervous. There are nice fat old grandmothers that like to lie together all day and chew their cuds, and skinny ones that just snatch a wisp of grass here or there, and are always on the go. Some always hook their way through the circle at a waterhole, take two swallows, and muddy up the water with their feet; others let themselves be hooked aside. There are curious ones and jealous ones, timid ones and bold. There are old cows who like to graze with young bulls, and pretty heifers who like the oldest ones. When you bring in new cattle to join them, some will come running to meet the new bunch, bellowing a greeting; others will run for the thickets as if they think it's a pack of wolves; and some just stand, empty-faced, and stare. Even their voices are different. Some bellow as if they're angry or have just found a scandal in the hills, some just make a low, whispered moo when you come on them in a scrub thicket, some will stand up on a hill and bellow about how bad they feel when you know there's nothing wrong with them, some low in a lonesome way, some just moan as if they're sorry for themselves. And some are quiet and gentle and just look at you with their big, soft eyes as you pass. They're dreadful bunch-quitters one and all, and they can dodge through clumps of scrub like cottontails.

A kid who could successfully control such a congregation of distinct characters would have to be alert, quick to see and react. He'd have to have a good memory, too, so he could keep track of the idiosyncracies of his charges and make sure each one got back to the right barn in the evening. "You take this same track every night?" Slim inquired.

"Just about, why?" the boy asked.

"I'm wonderin' if maybe, goin' in or out either one, you might have gotten a sight of somebody I'm tryin' to find." If he could get word of Jess now, he wouldn't have to put in the whole evening asking questions around the town; he could give his time instead to getting a good meal and plenty of sleep, and maybe also to finding a vet to look at Alamo's leg—such wounds were especially prone to "proud flesh," in which scarring over produced tumor-like tissue. An inch-long cut could bring a mass as much as thirty inches around which oozed serum, was prone to injury, bled easily, and continued to enlarge; when surgically removed, it often grew right back. Professional attention was necessary to keep it from developing, and while the clear, pure mountain air caused wounds to heal more rapidly than in the lowlands, Slim would still feel easier if he knew the horse had been properly examined.

"Maybe," the boy allowed. "How'd I know him if I had?"

Slim described Jess and his horse in quick strokes, as he'd done a hundred times up around South Pass. The kid listened carefully, his head canted in apparent thought. After a minute or two of consideration, he said, "Yeah. I saw a man like that—'most a week ago now, it'd be."

That made sense, Slim reflected, given the age of the bootprints he'd found and the delay while he waited for Alamo to be able to travel. "Is he still in these parts?"

He'd expected a negative, or at best _I don't know,_ but the boy gave him another of those sly sidewise looks and said, "Reckon he might be. I saw him the next mornin', and I know the fellers he was with. He'd be up at the Box Fifteen by now."

The answer surprised the rancher, who had thought sure Jess would just get some information on the country that lay ahead of him and resume his journey to California. On the other hand, if he'd run into someone he knew, someone who needed some kind of help... no one knew better than Slim did how easy it was for Jess to yield to the blandishments of friends in trouble, whether it was a real trouble or one that existed only in his own perception of the situation. "Box Fifteen?"

"It's a ranch, back up in the mountains," the kid told him. "You see those two tallest peaks on the east end? It lays right about midway between 'em."

Slim felt a sudden surge of excitement and anticipation. "Can you tell me how to get there?" Certainly the local liveryman, or maybe the storekeeper, would be able to if not—still, why waste the extra time asking, if it wasn't necessary?

"Sure." The boy slid down off his mare and began drawing a map in the dirt with a limber willow switch taken from under his belt. Slim joined him, squatting on his heels and watching as the lines formed into a rough picture of the terrain.

"How far?" he asked.

"From where we are now? Some over twenty-five miles on a straight line. More the way you'll go."

Slim tilted his head. "Pretty far from home for a town kid with responsibilities," he observed.

"I don't lie," the boy said. "I told you I do errands for Miss Aurelia sometimes. Some of 'em take me to Box Fifteen."

"All right," Slim told him. "I didn't mean any insult. I just wondered." He studied the map carefully, committing it to memory. "Thanks—say, what's your name, anyway?"

"Hardy. Hardy Medbury."

"Thanks again, Hardy Medbury." Slim rose, caught up Alamo. "Take good care of your cows—and your ma." He gave the chestnut a nudge with the spurs and headed toward town at a slow jog.

Hardy Medbury stood up and watched him go. He'd said he didn't lie, and that was right. He _had_ seen that black-haired man leaving town, and he _had_ known the men he was with—or at least, he'd known who they were working for. He'd realized right away that this was what Miss Aurelia had sent him to carry word of. And he knew the Box Fifteen people: they wouldn't have ignored her message. Spending his days out in the pasture with his cows, he didn't get much chance to hear local gossip, but he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that those Bar Comb riders had never gotten where they were going...

Anyway, Box Fifteen would make sure this tall man didn't get any farther, and it would save him another ride out there.

He hauled himself aboard his old mare, slung his leg over her back, and whistled to stir up his cows. "Let's go, ladies! Your calves are a-waitin'!"

**SR**

Morning found Slim on the trail once more, taking the remembered route as Hardy had sketched it out for him. He'd left Alamo at the local livery overnight, asking that the vet be called to have a look at his wound, and when he picked him up after breakfast, he'd been given the horse-doc's report: the leg had been examined and treated, and no further trouble was foreseen. He'd had a good supper and a good night's sleep—better than he'd had in over a week, despite the effects of fresh air and long days in the saddle, because now he knew that he was almost at the end of the trail. By tonight he'd see Jess again.

What he'd say to the man, how he'd get him to come home, he hadn't yet decided. A lot would depend on what exactly had taken Jess to the Box Fifteen.

He re-crossed the basin, which was wider at that point, and picked up a faint trail that showed the marks of cattle, horses, and wagons. It had been used often enough that the age of individual sign was difficult to make out, and in any case Slim didn't expect to be able to after nearly a week. But the trail itself was evidence enough that Hardy had steered him right. He worked his way steadily higher, up the south slope of the mountains, which, as he had noticed yesterday, was gentler than the northern flank. The grassland gave way to broad-leafed trees, then to mixed growth; there were shallow, steep-sided ravines which the trail followed or crossed, and here and there a swift, narrow stream that bubbled and boiled along for a hundred yards or so, calmed down for a way into a series of perfect trout pools, and then went plunging down among the trees and rocks again. For all Slim could tell, these streams were linked; he wasn't going to waste time following them through all their twists and turns. The trail crossed them at natural fording points, and he went where it led him. It skirted a blowdown, a big tangled pile of fallen trees, and dived into a belt of mixed timber. Slim checked as a muley doe came walking down to the stream, stepping cautious, then stopping, her big ears flicking nervously, alert for the sound of danger. She drank, raising her head to listen from time to time, then high-stepped into the water, crossed over, and with a flip of her tail disappeared into the willows on the far side.

The trail became a path between two towering walls of rock. This would be the canyon Hardy had described. It widened slightly, and there was a four-bar gate across it, with a sign hung on it: the Box Fifteen brand—a square enclosing the number 15—and beneath that, _M. French &amp; Family, Props. - Private Property_.

Slim checked, looking around, and seeing no sign of either people or stock, leaned forward to reach for the bar. Immediately a bullet whined past his head; he heard it hit the rock wall behind him with a spanging sound. "That's just far enough, Mister!" came a man's voice from somewhere, echoing so peculiarly that he couldn't isolate its direction. "Don't you move or I'll shoot you out of that saddle before you can blink!"

He straightened up cautiously, looking around. "I don't mean any harm," he shouted.

"Well, you just say so," the unseen rifleman answered. "You got two options. You can turn around and go back wherever you came from, or you can wait till I fetch an escort down for you, but you don't go another foot in on your own."

This seemed to support Slim's earlier guess that Jess had turned aside from his journey to help some chance-met friend who was in trouble. "I think I'll wait."

A snort. "Your choice. All right, nice and easy, unbuckle your gunbelt and let it drop, then pull out your rifle and throw it down. And hold in mind, you don't know where I am, but I can see you plain as day."

Slim did as he was told, then slowly eased Alamo back away from the weapons by a few yards. There was a moment's silence, then three rapid shots, one after another, which came nowhere near him; a pause, and two more, wider spaced. "Now we wait," came the shooter's voice.

The cathedral quiet of the mountains closed around again. Slim held himself easy, drawing on many years' experience as a hunter to keep from fidgeting. Half an hour or so passed, and then he heard the soft thud of horses' hooves in the deep pine litter. "Hey!" came a new voice. "Mark! You okay?"

"_I_ am, but there's a feller just the other side of the gate who won't be if he don't sit still," the unseen rifleman responded. "Go fetch him up to Pa."

A dappled brown gelding appeared at the edge of the trees about fifty feet past the gate, followed closely by a white Appaloosa mare with faded rose spots on her hips, black streaks on her legs, and a red varnish mark forming a reverse blaze on her face. The riders were both young men, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, but they looked alert and experienced and competent, as young range men so often did. The brown's rider had auburn hair under a gray Stetson with a collection of "treasures"—a set of snake rattles, the skull of some small animal, an interesting arrowhead—strung onto the band in a fashion Slim had sometimes seen in cowboys; his brown-checked calico shirt was livened up by a flashy bright red silk bandanna carelessly knotted at his throat, cowhide chaps worn over blue canvas pants. He carried two guns, the butt of the right-hand one turned rearward, that of the left forward so it would be available to either hand. The one on the Appy was taller and leaner than his partner, very fair, with white-blond hair and startlingly dark, violet eyes; he wore a vest of Indian-tanned buckskin above gray corded pants tucked into black boots with a wide red band around the top of each, ornamented with cutouts, and his gun on his left hip in a tilted-forward Missouri holster. An ivory-hilted Bowie knife with a metal-shod butt thrust out of the top of one boot, much in Jess's style. He had a short Spencer .54 repeating carbine balanced across the pommel of his saddle; his partner held a modern Winchester with the butt braced Apache-fashion against his thigh.

The brown's rider moved slowly forward while the one on the Appy angled off a bit and checked, lifting the Spencer off his saddlefork and holding it almost casually at waist level. Slim wasn't fooled; he could see that if he made a bad move, that cannon-like war-vintage weapon would take him down without coming near the other fellow. _They've done this kind of thing before,_ he knew, and watched as the man on the brown leaned way out of his saddle to raise the bar on the gate, then took hold of the endpost and slowly backed his gelding away, pulling the barrier open. "All right," said the one on the Appy. "Come on, nice and slow. You'll pass to my right and go on into the trees. Just keep to the creekside and we'll get where we're going. Phil will pick up your guns and follow after us. And hold in mind I won't be more than ten or twelve feet behind you, and if I let this thing off, you'll never feel it."

Slim had seen what those old repeaters could do, back during the war. He nudged Alamo gently into motion and walked him through the opening, past the watchful steel-blue eyes of the rider on the brown, past the slowly traversing bore of the Spencer and into the trees. He could hear the muffled steps of the Appy falling in behind him. The trail he'd been following was still there, more plainly marked now, since the trees sheltered it from wind and weather. "Got him, Harry?" came the rifleman's voice from his unseen sentry-post.

"You can see," Harry responded mildly. "You stayin'?"

"Another hour or so, just to make sure nobody follows him. Tell Pa, will you?"

"Tell Ellen, more like, so she'll see your supper's kept," snorted Harry. And then: "You, stranger—what's your handle?"

"My _name,"_ Slim corrected him, "is Sherman. Out of Laramie, Wyoming. Who wants to know?"

The other chuckled. "Somebody who'd like to have an idea what to put on your marker, if you end up stayin' with us for good. Every man ought to have at least that much."

Slim didn't turn around, even though there was a patch of skin between his shoulderblades that was itching unbearably at the thought of that half-inch-plus bore trained on his back. He kept his eyes on the trail, and then suddenly the trees fell away and he entered a U-shaped canyon with imposing walls 1000 to 1600 feet high, almost vertical, with few ledges and practically no vegetation. Yet it was gay and sunny, the light bringing out its vivid coloring. The stream ran down the middle of it, with the trail following along the left-hand bank. It opened into a wide and hidden valley where at least two hundred cattle were grazing contentedly; scattered about it were little patches or groves of evergreens where the cedars grew a hundred feet high and more, and the cones on the sugar pines were a foot long and heavy enough to fell a horse if they ever hit one in dropping. On the other side the canyon narrowed once more. Side gulches opened off in either direction, revealing high pinnacles, waterfalls, and more hidden valleys with sweet waving grass. The creek grew small but swift, widened, almost disappeared in giant fissures, then broadened to flow smooth and wide once more as the canyon constantly changed shape and size.

Slim estimated they'd come close to five miles when the canyon opened out again into the prettiest valley he had ever seen, with the willow-lined creek meandering through it and green meadows on both sides. Rimrock made an almost solid wall around it, a sheer fifty feet high or more, with here and there a few breaks, easily closed by fences. The entire opening encompassed perhaps twenty square miles, and almost exactly in the center stood a cluster of buildings: a large house, a couple of barns, fenced stack lots, calf pens, fattening pens, weaning pens with five-foot fences and oat troughs down the middle, a corral with stables and a long row of stalls opening onto it, a bunkhouse big enough to accommodate six or seven men, a hog yard, poultry houses, several sheds, a smokehouse, an icehouse, a long open-faced wagon shed with a smithy at one end, a machine shed in which Slim could make out two or three plows, a disk and harrow, a cultivator, a seed drill, and a horse-drawn reaper. There was a home-built windmill feeding into a big tank, a kitchen garden that must have covered 25,000 square feet, berry bushes, fields of feed corn with the brittle shocks standing like tipis in neat rows, and a large mixed orchard marching up a hillside, seventy-five or eighty trees, Slim guessed. It was as close to total self-sufficiency as he could ever recall seeing. Two or three dogs came loping to greet the riders, and as they moved on into the compound he noticed several other young men about the place, all in range dress—one stacking firewood near the back door of the house, one dressing out a carcass of elk on a crossbar and uprights, two with a buckboard's bed hoisted off a defective axle by a block and tackle outside the smithy. He could see a figure in skirts gathering laundry off some lines behind the house, and another standing on the front porch watching as they drew nearer. Geese hissed at Alamo as he passed. A cat perched on the porch rail, langourously washing under its left foreleg; it looked up as the horses drew near, blinked once or twice, and suddenly hopped down and stalked away as if the idea of visitors offended it deeply.

The woman on the porch was young, like Slim's escort, rather tall, willowy, with gray-blue eyes and glossy blue-black hair tied in a clutch of curls at the crown of her head with a length of pink velvet ribbon; her dress was made of sprigged blue calico, a blue gingham apron tied over it, a fringe-trimmed black shawl held around her shoulders against the cool breeze coming down off the peaks that towered to the sky in the distance. "Pa's in his office," she offered as the trio drew up at the rail.

"Thanks, Sarah. Call one of the kids to look after these horses, will you?" The Appy's rider swung down, dropping his reins to make the horse stand, and motioned with the Spencer's barrel. "Inside. First door on your right."

The house was a big two-storey structure of hewn and peeled sugar- and Ponderosa-pine logs, each eight inches through, carefully dovetailed and chinked with white plaster under a roof of thick hand-split cedar shakes. A porch covered with Madeira vines ran its full width, roofed with sheets of iron; near one end of this hung a mesh hammock with a raised headpiece. The door was made of heavy planks hung on iron hinges which Slim would have bet had been forged right on the place; there was a japanned-iron boot-scraper conveniently placed alongside it, which he politely used. Just inside was a square six-by-six vestibule with a curtained closet running all along one side, a steer-horn hat-tree in the corner opposite, a green-painted door exactly across from the outer one, and another on the right. Slim opened this and stepped into a twelve-by-twelve room lit through eight-paned windows on two sides, with a four-by-four-foot fireplace opening in the back wall and a second green door above the one he had just come through, probably giving access to the rest of the house. The Box Fifteen brand had been burned into the plain pine mantel a dozen times with a hot iron. The furniture was sparse, very masculine: an oak rolltop desk set between the side windows with a big Rochester lamp on it and a black-leather-covered swivel chair in front; a couple of bookcases of smooth, unpainted pine flanking the fireplace, filled with account books, tally books, veterinarians' texts, and other volumes of practical knowledge; a small steel safe tucked into the angle between fireplace and doors; two or three easy chairs of hide, and set under the front windows a leather-covered sofa very much like the one in Slim's own house. But above the mantel hung a chromo of Bierstadt's _Sunset in Yosemite Valley,_ flanked by black-and-white engravings of _The Stag at Bay_ and _The_ _Forester's Family,_ and there were hunting trophies and Indian artifacts speckling the walls, worsted drapes hanging on either side of each window, and a carpet in an unfussy geometrical repeat pattern. A man stood beside the farther of the front windows, as if he'd been watching them dismount; he was about Jess's height but just a bit heavier—not soft, but well-fed and well-muscled. He was simply dressed in faded blue breeches, a dark calico shirt with an age-softened buckskin vest over it, a cherry silk bandanna that added a dash of color—and elaborately hand-tooled boots, with cartwheel Coahuila spurs on them. He wasn't armed, at least not visibly, but there was a brass-buckled gunbelt lain casually across the top of the desk alongside the lamp, with a sixgun handled in white bone resting in the holster.

"That'll do," said Slim's escort when he was six feet inside the room, and the rancher stopped and waited. The other young man, the brown's rider—Slim remembered that he'd been called Phil by his partner—slipped past him, with Slim's gunbelt over his shoulder; he handed it to the waiting man and said something in a voice pitched too low for Slim to make out the words, then backed off to stand beside the fireplace.

_This must be "Pa,"_ Slim thought, and returned the other's thoughtful study. He must have been around sixty, and something about the way he stood suggested that he lived with old injuries, but had had time enough to learn to compensate for them; there was still a certain grace about him, a comfort in his own body that teased at the rancher's mind a moment, until he realized—it was the same kind of self-knowledge that Jess had, the same understanding of exactly what he could do, how he could move. His eyes were steel-gray, steady and measuring, the eyes of a man who had seen just about everything and had a great store of the wisdom of experience piled up, who knew men and animals and the land and was equal to just about anything any of them might throw at him; except for their color, they reminded Slim of his own father's.

"My boys tell me your name's Sherman?" he prompted, in a gentle Texas drawl. Age notwithstanding, he still had a warrior's stern face and lazy eyes, deceptively quiet voice and perilous easygoing manner. _There's a lot of fight left in this man,_ Slim told himself, _and I don't think I'd care to be on the receivin' end of it._

"That's right. They call me Slim, mostly."

The other drew Slim's Colt half out of leather and glanced over it in a way that suggested he needed no more than that to get everything from it he needed, then put it back and laid it rig and all on the work surface of the desk. "From Wyoming," he proceeded. "And the other side of the Divide, by the looks of you."

"My home's just outside Laramie," Slim agreed. He'd known enough of these old-time cowmen to know that they liked to give you enough rope to hang yourself by; the trick to getting along with them was to keep your temper, mind your manners, and always tell the truth, but never volunteer anything before you were asked, because that gave them the idea you weren't sure of yourself.

"Laramie," the rancher repeated. "Fair piece from home."

"That's right," said Slim evenly.

"We don't get a lot of company up this way," mused the other. "Less at this time of year, still less from outside the Territory—and just about never men who can say they have a home. Box Fifteen's not the kind of place folks pass through casually, you maybe guessed. How'd you find us?"

"Followed directions," said Slim. "A kid herdin' dairy stock outside Vernal, said his name was Hardy Medbury."

The rancher tilted an eyebrow; like his trimly-clipped mustache, it was ash-brown in color, although his hair had gone pearl white. "Now why would Hardy have sent you up here?"

"Because I asked him if he'd seen a friend of mine," said Slim, although inwardly he felt a little spark of relief that the man obviously knew the name. "He recognized the description I gave him and said he'd be here by now."

"Did he," the rancher mused. "You want to do me that same favor?"

Once again Slim described his missing ranchhand, size and build, coloring, horse and gear. "His name's Jess Harper, though I don't know if he'd be goin' by it."

The other nodded thoughtfully and said nothing for a minute. Then his eyes narrowed. "Like I said, we don't get a lot of company up this way. You say this Harper is a friend of yours, but all I have is your word for that. If you were law, you'd offer to show a badge or a warrant. Anyone could know a man's name. Anyone could have the description you gave. How do I know you're not hunting this man?"

Slim's heartbeat picked up. "I am, but not the way you think. He got in some trouble back home, and he thinks he's placed us in danger. I came to try to make him understand that that doesn't matter, that our outfit stands together," he said, quoting Jonesy.

"You'll have to do better," said the other, and Slim heard a floorboard creak behind him as the still-unnamed member of his escort settled himself, to be ready to draw.

He took a slow breath, thinking. He never knew exactly why he settled on the answer that came to him, but he felt somehow that it was the only one that would save him. "He has a scar just above his right elbow, like a shallow groove, still pretty fresh—he got creased back in May, when he broke up a robbery at the stage office in Laramie. And another, about the same age, on his left thigh—that's a puncture, the bullet went in the front and right out the back." Hesitation, then: "He carries an ivory-handled Colt with the action honed down and the sear and front sight filed off. And a knife in his right boot, leather-hilted. He might have spoken of someone named Andy, or of Jonesy."

The young man standing by the fireplace came alert, or perhaps a little more alert. "Pa, that's—"

"I heard, Phil." The gray eyes seemed to thaw, just a bit. "Come with me," he said to Slim, and, "Harry, leave that cannon of yours."

He led the way through the upper door, into a large oblong sitting room with windows across the far end, furnished in a mix of comfortable pillowed rawhide-and-wood pieces, large green overstuffed chairs and a matching sofa with red velvet cushions in the corners, several lady rockers with assorted upholsteries and a sewing stand or workbox conveniently placed by each one, various rather fancy occasional tables, lots of good Argand-type lamps, a vast old center table of New England oak, an ebonywood upright Baldwin piano with a bench that could seat two. The rear wall was centered by a massive old fireplace of brick and native stone, with an oak mantel carved with a broad-ax from a single huge log, and smoothed by hand with a plane and draw-shave; across from the office door, balancing it, was another painted the same shade of green. Bookshelves ran the full depth of the room under the windowsills, and taller ones, two-thirds ceiling height, flanked the fireplace; they were filled with everything from books and albums, bound sets of periodicals, and dime novels through books of music scores to parlor games and a cinnabar box for gamesmen, and over them and the mantel hung a print depicting the story of Dante and Beatrice, copper medallions of Webster and Clay, lithographs of Washington, Lafayette, and the signing of the Declaration after Trumbull's painting, two horses after Sir Frederick Leighton, a framed _E Pluribus Unum_ worked in beads—and a picture of the Alamo and a woodcut of Sam Houston. There was a stuffed owl on the mantel, a ship model, a vase of gilt-paper flowers, several pictures in small silver frames, and an old Counting House Calendar clock that showed the time of day, day of the week, date, month, and year. Across the tops of the bookcases marched intriguing arrangements of marble-glass vases, figurines of china and Bennington parianware, a biscuit-porcelain group of _The Finding of Moses,_ a white biscuitware eagle, and many handsome paperweights. Bright-colored rugs and blankets, calf and wild-animal skins covered the floor. Directly behind the office a dogleg stairway ran up to the second floor, with a window on the landing, and under its return was a doorway filled with a muslin drape. This led into a big dining room dominated by a long wooden table big enough to seat at least twenty people without crowding, and a fireplace back-to-back with the one in the sitting room. On the other side of that, in turn, was a second muslin-draped doorway that let into a serving pantry built up to the ceiling in drawers for bread and cake, tiers of shelves, and cabinets for glassware and dishes, and beyond that again was a sort of little passage at the end of which, on the right and just before the kitchen, was an open doorway with daylight filtering through it. As he neared this, Slim could hear a woman's voice murmuring something indistinct from just beyond, and then what made his heart skip a beat—a deeper voice, low and uneven and rambling. He almost knew what he would see before his as-yet-unnamed host—or perhaps captor—stopped at the doorside and waved him in.

The room was small, about eight by ten, but it had a pair of windows, the same eight-pane variety as in the office and sitting room, in the wall across from the door, which swung back to the right, leaving a space about three feet wide on the left into which a low-post single-width pine bed was pushed side-on to the end wall. By the head of this stood a plain oak table about two feet square, on which was a lamp, a big blue bowl of water, and an ironstone pitcher; a little nearer was a high-backed Boston rocker, and at the far end of the room a simple country-type pine washstand and a small round iron stove with a copper kettle perched on top of it. And in the bed, half covered by a pineapple-pattern quilt, was Jess. But not sleeping, at least not peacefully. His skin was flushed with fever and his dark mobile brows angled up in the way he had when he was dealing with pain or intense emotion; he looked gaunt and drawn. Where the quilt had been folded back, Slim could see his collarbones standing out under the skin, and his head was rolling to and fro on the pillow in an arrhythmic pattern as he moaned and murmured in delirium. His chest and midriff were patterned with bruises, not fresh ones—fading to yellow and green, a few days old.

A girl of about seventeen was sitting in the rocker, patiently bathing Jess's hot skin with a large sponge. _Might have expected,_ Slim thought. _He always seems to get fevered when he's hurt._ She looked up quickly as his tall shape blocked the door, and he saw the reserve and uncertainty in her eyes. She was a pretty girl, with the glass-clear complexion sometimes called peaches-and-cream, finely textured skin, light golden-brown eyes and flaxen blonde hair; she wore a purple paper muslin printed in a quadrilled pattern, and a cameo brooch around her neck on a thin gold chain.

Without thinking about it, Slim stepped all the way into the room, then hesitated at the fierce look the girl gave him. A board in the floor creaked under his foot, and Jess startled where he lay and spoke, ramblingly but comprehensibly: "No... no, don't... lemme 'lone... leave me be... I don't—I don't do that no more..." He gasped, then cried out weakly, "No! No... Slim, help me..."

Slim felt something tighten in his chest. Jess was fiercely proud and independent and hated to ask for help, though out on the range he would accept it gracefully from a teammate if it was offered. Whatever he was seeing in his fevered dreams must be almost unbearable if it forced him to call for someone else's aid.

"_No-ooo," _Jess moaned, clearly in great distress, his head tossing to and fro on the pillow, and then a harsh cry, half fury, half terror: "Andy! Andy, no!" His voice broke, gave way to dry sobs of grief. "No... please, no... not again..."

_He must be thinkin' of his brother,_ Slim told himself, remembering the evening on the ranchhouse porch when Jess had first mentioned the unnamed younger brother who had died of cholera at fifteen, three years after Jess had last seen him. Jess hadn't said so straight out, but Slim knew he had been very close to this younger boy; the rancher was pretty sure Jess had been on the verge of tears when he talked about his lost sibling. It was partly because Andy reminded him of his brother that he had agreed to stay on at Sherman Ranch.

"Jess..." Slim half-whispered. And then, to the girl: "Let me get in. Let me try—"

"Leave him be," said she. "We've gotten him no further than this since he came to us, what do you think you can do?"

Past his shoulder Slim heard the older man's voice. "It's all right, Ellen. This is Slim—the one he's been calling for."

Her face changed from defiant to comprehending, and she promptly put the sponge in the basin and got up, moving to stand behind the rocker as if offering it to Slim. He didn't take it. He sank down in a rangeman's heel-squat beside the bed, to be as close to his friend's ear-level as possible. "Jess," he said quietly. "Jess, can you hear me?"

Jess's dark head rolled toward him; his eyes didn't open, but something seemed to change in his face. "S—Slim?"

It was barely a whisper, and slurred almost to incoherence, but the rancher couldn't remember when any sound had seemed so sweet to his ears. "I'm here," he said, and wrapped his hand around Jess's searching one, feeling the long, sinewy fingers turning in his, trying feebly to return the pressure. "I'm here, Jess. You take it easy, now. Rest, and get better, and we'll go home. Andy and Jonesy are worried about you."

"Andy," Jess mumbled. "Jonesy..." He gave a deep sigh and seemed to settle back in the bed. "Slim..." His voice faded; his restless turning ceased, and with it his delirious ramblings.

The girl, Ellen, leaned forward, past Slim's shoulder, to lay her palm against the Texan's forehead. "He's still fevery, Pa, but it seems he's resting easier."

"I'll tell Sarah or Grace to make up some more willow tea," said one of the young men—Slim recognized the voice; it was Phil.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. "My young'uns'll see to him for a spell," said the man referred to as "Pa." "You can sit with him later, if you're a mind to. Right now I've a notion you'd like to get cleaned up, maybe have a cup of coffee. Maybe something a little bit stronger."

"I wouldn't mind," Slim agreed. "It's been a long trail. Five hundred miles or more, countin' the double-backs and false starts."

The other drew him out into the passage, dismissing Harry with a look—Phil had already gone off in search of "Sarah or Grace"—and paused to look him over as if with new eyes. "He knows you," he said, with a nod back into the sickroom. "Knows you and trusts you, even sick as he is. Anyone can see that. You've done him more good in less than five minutes than all my girls by turns've been able to do in as many days. I've never seen the like." He offered his hand. "My name's Mathurin French, though most call me Matt. Sorry if I seemed a bit... sudden, but that boy's a guest under my roof, and I'm obliged to protect him, since he's in no case to protect himself. I had to be sure you didn't mean him harm."

Slim accepted the handshake. "I've done similar," he said, thinking of Ed Caulder. "No offense taken. Matt?" he repeated. "That was my father's name, though he was Matthew."

"Matt Sherman? Seems to me I heard of a man by that name. Never met him, though I'd have liked to. He bossed herds up to the river towns from Texas in the '50's. They say he was honest and fair, tough and savvy and knew his business. They say, in some ways, he was about as close as you can get to bein' a Texan, without bein' born or livin' there."

"That was Pa," Slim agreed. "I'm sorry I won't be able to tell him you thought so well of him."

"He's gone?" French guessed.

"During the war. About seven years now."

French sighed and shook his head. "Well, man that is born of woman, like it says in the Book... come on, I'll show you where you can wash up."

He escorted Slim past a door with a glass pane in it, which let onto a sheltered side porch furnished chiefly with a washbench and several stacks of firewood, and into a large square kitchen with walls in a warm-gray enamel paint, a large central worktable, a screened "safe" for storing cheeses, breads, cooked meats, pies, or puddings, open painted shelves lined with staple foods in crockery, wooden, and tinned iron containers, a deep sink with a hand pump and a drying rack for washing vegetables and pots, cookware on hooks, and of course a wood-burning iron stove with an attached galvanized iron boiler for heating water. A stack of brick-built ovens flanked it, and beyond that was a door that probably let into an adjoining food pantry. At the back of the room was another glass-paned door, and to the right of it a solid one. Three young women, who appeared to be in their late teens to middle twenties, were bustling about, clearly organizing for the evening meal: one was Sarah, whom Slim had seen outside; one was dark golden blonde like himself, and one had hair a rich dark brown like Jess's in strong lamplight. Like Ellen, they wore simple, practical housedresses of gingham and calico and clear pastel muslin. They paused in their work as French escorted Slim in, and he anticipated them with a brief introduction. "Girls, this is Slim Sherman; he'll be stayin' with us a spell. Set him a place at the table, and as soon as one of you has the time, open up the middle guest room for him."

"My gear—" Slim began.

"It'll be here," the man assured him. "My three youngest are out at the barn, they'll be seein' to your horse. I'll go stir 'em up a bit once I get you settled. Right through here," he said, drawing the younger man across the room to that solid door. Beyond was a bathing room not unlike those Slim had often seen attached to barbershops: four sheet-iron tubs, each with a portable tin soap dish hooked over the side and a Navajo rug hung up to separate it from its neighbors; a high-set wooden-cask reservoir reinforced with sturdy iron hoops, force pump set underneath to fill it by, pipes leading out, one depending above a stack of wooden buckets, the other over an oblong heater with two big copper boilers set atop, wood stacked in the corner alongside; several shelves with towels folded and stacked on them, scrubbing brushes, washcloths; a suspended counter with pitchers and basins on it and a couple of oval mirrors on the wall above, a strop hitched to the frame of each, a little shelf underneath for shaving gear, several easily portable wicker egg-baskets with colognes, hair oils, and bars of plain and perfumed soap in them. High-set windows, tightly calked, provided daylight, supplemented by a huge lamp hanging from a rafter. "Take your time," said French, "we won't be sittin' down till seven." He shut the door, which Slim now noticed had a sturdy bolt on the inside so nobody (particularly of the opposite gender) would walk in on you unexpectedly.

Slim was still deeply concerned about Jess, and he meant to have answers as soon as possible—just what had happened to him? Had it occurred before he arrived, and if so, why had Hardy Medbury given the impression that Jess had gotten here under his own power? How seriously ill _was_ he?—but with his typical practicality he pushed it off into the mental filing cabinet marked _Later_ and set to work preparing his bath. He fired up the heater, filled one of the boilers from the reservoir, pumped two buckets of cold water and set them beside one of the tubs to adjust the temperature with, sat down on an old splint-bottomed chair to drag his boots off, and started undressing while his water heated. A tap on the door turned out to be French with his bedroll and saddlebags; he brought them in and arranged them conveniently, then shot the bolt, filled the tub and stripped. He noticed, to his surprise, that at the foot of each tub a little hole, about an inch and a half across, had been started with a metal punch and cut out with a pair of tin-snips, then filled in with a sturdy plug equipped with a pull-ring to help get it out by. These plugs would drain into a sort of shallow trough lined with galvanized metal and arranged so the water would run toward the back of the room and out through a little trap that lifted up on tracks. A true labor-saver: no need to bail the tub out by hand once you were finished.

He soaked and scrubbed until his muscles felt loose and warm and his skin clean, washed his hair, then dried and dressed, courteously opened the plug and trap to drain his tub, shaved and repacked his gear, saving out his dirty clothes till he could find out if any of the girls would launder them for him. As he did this he tried to assemble a mental tally of how many people there were in this family. There'd been Mark, the rifleman whom he hadn't yet seen; Phil and Harry, who'd come down to the gate to get him; Sarah and Ellen and the two other girls whose names he didn't know; the four young men he'd seen working in the yard, and the "three youngest" French had said were "out at the barn." Fourteen. With French himself, fifteen. Would that be where the brand had come from? A box to represent their house, and the figure fifteen themselves. Mrs. French, apparently, was no longer among the living.

The kitchen was beginning to fill up with good smells when he stepped out of the bathing room. Sarah looked up from chopping roast beef for hash and smiled briefly at him. "Let me have those," she offered with a nod at his gear, "and I'll take them upstairs as soon as I finish this. Pa's waiting for you in the office—you know how to find your way back there, I guess."

"I think I can do it, yes, Miss," he agreed, and having left his baggage on a conveniently located chair he walked back past the side door, past the sickroom where Ellen was still sitting with Jess, through the pantry and into the dining room where the brown-haired girl was setting places, across the sitting room and so back to the office door. He knocked and was bidden enter.

Between two of the hide easy chairs was a cowhorn stand with a bottle of Dr. Packard's Old Stone Mill bourbon on it, a couple of big glass tumblers, a leather-covered cigar box, and a hammered copper ashtray. "Sit down," said French. "Pour as big a drink as you think you need. I like to have a dram or so about this time; my pa always said that a good healthy drink of whiskey before a meal gave a man an appetite and made his food set easy."

"Mine had the same notion," Slim admitted, "but he had to sneak it—Ma was teetotal all her life." He filled one of the tumblers to within a finger's width of the rim, sat down and sipped slowly, letting the good whiskey linger warmly a moment on his tongue before he swallowed. French took the other chair, poured a drink for himself, offered his guest the cigar box, and when Slim shook his head took a Monogram cigar for himself, clipped the end and lit it.

"Well," he said, "don't keep it tamped down. Ask away."

"I hardly know where to begin," Slim admitted. "Did that boy Hardy send me up here knowin' full well the kind of reception I'd get, and if so why? How long has Jess been with you? How badly was he hurt?"

"That sounds like a good one to start with," French decided, "especially considerin' the look you got on your face when you saw him in that bed. A crack on the head, some bruising, and he took a bullet about a hand above his right knee. Did a consideration of bleedin', and he's picked up a fever, as you could see. But it was a clean wound, didn't touch the bone, and we got the lead out of him."

"I'm obliged to you," Slim said. "If you hadn't taken him in, I might not have caught up with him in time to do him any good. I don't know what I'd have said to my kid brother in that case; Andy thinks the sun rises and sets on Jess. Come to that, Jess thinks highly of him, too."

"Not just of him, I'm thinkin'," said French. "You've been on his mind a lot since he's been with us. You heard him, callin' out for you. Sometimes he thinks he's in need of your help; others he seems to be afraid you're in need of his, maybe in danger, or hurt somehow—he asks where you are, whether you're okay."

Slim felt a momentary warmth. Jess hadn't divorced himself emotionally from the Sherman Ranch family, not completely, not yet; that boded well for the chance of persuading him to return. "He was already pretty far out of it when we got him here, running a fever," French continued. "Thought he was in enemy hands, I reckon—tried to fight us, but he didn't have the strength to keep it up. That was when we first heard him call for you. I thought he might've had a partner who'd been left behind or killed in Vernal, so I sent a couple of the boys in, quiet-like, to find out, but they said everyone agreed he'd been alone. We've been sort of expecting you'd show up, soon or late, as much on his mind as you've been. But we figured, if you were such a big part of his life, anyone who meant him harm might know about you and try to use your name to get to him. We had to feel sure you were the real Slim."

"Is that why your boys held me up at the gate?"

"Not altogether, but we can get back to that later on; it's a bit of a long story to be tellin' with supper comin' on. You asked about Hardy. He's a good boy, and he's fetched us many a message from town, not least of 'em the one that brought your friend here to begin with. But he's been the man of his house since his pa died when he was only seven, and... well, he's seen some things that make him likely to skirmish around the truth a bit. He don't flat lie, but he's got no problem with twistin' his words around to make people think the situation's different from what it is. What exactly did he say to you?"

Slim searched a moment through his memory. "First that he'd seen a man who fit the description I gave him, and that it had been around a week ago. I doubted Jess would still be in these parts, but I asked anyway, and Hardy said, 'Reckon he might be. I saw him the next morning, and I know the fellers he was with. He'd be up at the Box Fifteen by now.' "

French nodded thoughtfully. "He must have seen the Bar Comb outfit leavin' town as he was takin' his cows out that day. Yes, he knew them boys—not the way you'd know a friend, not even the way he knows us, but who they were and where from, and he also knew they'd be on their way home with your friend. And he knew they wouldn't get there, not if we had anything to say about it. Which we did."

"Bar Comb?" Slim queried.

"Neighbors, sort of. That's part of the long story. Anyway, Jess—that's his name, right?—Jess came here that very same day, so Hardy was right when he guessed where he'd be."

Slim knew there was a lot more to it, but he realized that French wanted to save the full story a while. He changed the subject. "You've got a beautiful place here. I come from mountain country myself—my pa left twenty-odd sections in a valley under the Laramie Range—but I never saw anything quite the like of this."

French smiled. "Sarah's a reader; well, most of us are, but she was the one who named it—Elysium. I stumbled on this place back in the early '50's. Never forgot it. When I got my young'uns, I decided this was the place to bring 'em. There's springs in these canyons, not to mention the snowmelt every year, so water's plenty. There's timber for buildings and firewood and fences—not that we needed more than just that one line across the mouth of the canyon; even if they were much for climbin', which they're not, the cattle have no particular bent to leave the good grass, and the way these valleys and canyons lead into one another, they couldn't get down to the lower country if they wanted to. The graze is rich, and the walls cut off a lot of the winter wind; there's space enough for ten times the stock we've got. We can raise a good share of our own food, all our feed and hay, and bring in fish and game besides. The trouble around Mountain Meadows was away south of here, and over before we came; the Mormons are cordial enough, and we don't meddle in their business, so they leave us alone. The Utes cut up a bit now and again, but we taught 'em a sharp lesson or two in the beginning, and they're not stupid, so they don't trouble us any more."

Slim didn't miss the reference to "getting his young'uns." Did that mean they weren't French's own? "I saw a couple of hundred head in the valley just above the gateway canyon," he said carefully.

"And you saw some of the other valleys that lead off, too, I'd wager," said French. "I started ten years ago with two hundred she-stuff with calves, a few bulls, and four hundred young steers to keep goin' by till the herd could build. We're up to around two thousand now, as of fall tally."

That put him at the uppermost limit of that class of ranchers generally described as "small," and likely to become "middling" with next spring's calf crop. If he had range enough to accommodate ten times that, he—or more likely his heirs—would be very substantial indeed in forty years or so. Before Slim could decide what to say next, he heard a distant clangor of iron on iron from somewhere toward the back of the house. "That's one of the girls beatin' on the tire iron to call everybody in to get washed," said French, stubbing out his cigar. "You won't need to, and I already did, so we can wait for 'em in the dining room. Best place for you to meet everybody, anyhow."

Slim's estimate proved accurate: not counting Sarah, who had gone to relieve Ellen at Jess's bedside, there were a total of thirteen youngsters at the table, ranged from oldest to youngest down the right side and the same up the left, except for the chair at the foot, where Sarah, being the oldest of the girls and therefore the hostess, would ordinarily be. Counting from French's right, there were Jack, Charlie, Harry, Mark, Grace, Phil, and George, and then across from them Laura, Tommy, Ellen, and the "three youngest," Joe, Danny, and Susie, with Slim placed between her and French, on the man's left. He guessed Jack to be around twenty-five or -six, George and Tommy and Laura all roughly nineteen, which somewhat supported his guess that they weren't French's by blood. He also noticed that Grace, who was probably in her very early twenties, wore a narrow gold wedding ring, and remembered seeing a wider one, heavily worked with entwined flowers and leaves, on Sarah's marriage finger. Joe was about fifteen, a dark ash-blond; Susie, who appeared to be twelve or so, had brown hair with an auburn cast; but both had the same eyes, a bright, clear blue, lively and intelligent. Danny seemed to come somewhere between them, guessing by his size; his eyes were the same steel-blue as Phil's, but he had coppery brown hair where Phil's was auburn. They reported that "Mr. Harper's bay," who had apparently been restless and uneasy since he had arrived, had gotten Alamo's scent, given one loud joyous whinny, and immediately become calm. Unlike the older girls, Susie was dressed boy-fashion, in brown Levi's and a duck brush jacket that matched Joe's, a blue plaid woollen shirt that brought out the color of her eyes, russet mule-ear boots, and a fawn-gray cowboy hat which French had to remind her to take off; her hair was cropped short like her presumptive brothers'.

The meal centered on the hash Sarah had been preparing, plus macaroni and cheese, chicken salad, ham-and-potato salad, baking-powder bread with raisins in it and hot Southern spoon bread of white cornmeal baked slowly in a deep dish until the fluffy dough under the golden-crisp crust was so soft it had literally to be spooned onto the plate, plenty of pickles and relishes, peach jam and cinnamon-spiced applesauce, hard-boiled eggs, and for dessert currant cake and chocolate meringue pie. Everything was excellent, and despite his concern for Jess Slim passed his plate back for seconds. Afterward the girls cleared off, with Charlie helping; Jack and Tommy went out to take a turn around the compound and make sure the livestock were all settled and the dogs and geese turned out to give warning of intruders, and Slim, having gone with them just long enough to check on Traveller and Alamo, again joined French in to the office. "I reckon it's occurred to you by now," the older man observed, "that they can't all be out of the same mother—or even likely the same father."

"Not unless there were more multiple births than most families have," Slim agreed.

"No, there weren't any of those. I call 'em my young'uns, but they're not really—not by blood, though we've been a family for quite some time now." He explained that he and a small crew of cowhands had been pushing his six-hundred-odd head of young cattle northwesterly out of Texas and through eastern Colorado in 1860—"I could see the way things were headed back there, all the talk about John Brown and Lincoln and secession, and I didn't want no part of it; reckoned to go to California or Oregon and start over, figured there'd be a lot less trouble there"—and they stumbled upon a group of youngsters, fourteen of them from three different families, whose parents had been killed by Southern Cheyennes. French had lost his family too, the year before—"wife and three boys, all dead of smallpox; that was the other part of why I made up my mind to move on, didn't feel like I could stay where I'd be seein' reminders of them everywhere I looked, so I picked out the best and strongest of my beef, sold the rest and my land, and set out"—so he became their father and had lived with them ever since. "They had dairy cows, small livestock, furniture, farmin' and carpentry tools, seed, wagons and teams, I had beef cattle and horses, and we all had money, so we pooled resources, and I led 'em here. Vernal didn't even exist till the year after; we had to go to Salt Lake City and buy half a year's worth of supplies all at once." With the help of the older boys, French and his crew had raised the buildings while the older girls looked after the "kids." The Hayworth children, who had come originally from Connecticut, included three boy-girl pairs: first Sarah, fourteen, and Mark, twelve; then George, nine and a half, and Ellen, just over seven; and last five-year-old Joe and Susie, "the baby," who was two. The Blackmores, who were out of Kentucky, had had two sons, Jack and Harry, sixteen and fourteen, and two daughters, Grace and Laura, twelve and nine. And Mr. Truesdell, who'd been born in St. Louis, had left four handsome motherless sons, Charlie, Phil, Tommy, and Danny, aged fourteen, eleven, nine, and four.

Over the years, as the older boys grew in strength and skill, French had gradually let his hired cowhands go, until now the Box Fifteen was a one-hundred-per-cent family operation: with their land naturally fenced by ridges and canyons and valley walls, it wasn't at all difficult for eight men over seventeen, two boys, and Susie to manage 2000 cattle, the three stud bands of horses that French had established, the getting in of wood, repair work, slaughtering and butchering, hunting, and the sowing and reaping of hay and feed each year. The four "big girls," who were of course used to one another and worked as well together as the boys did, made a co-operative business of cooking, cleaning, laundering, keeping the garden and a huge flock of poultry—not just chickens, but ducks, turkeys, guinea-fowl, and geese, the latter as much for their watchdog qualities as for feathers and meat; they sewed all their own clothes and all the men's shirts, besides household needs like bedsheets. Joe, Danny, and Susie couldn't even remember their real parents any more; Matt and their big brothers were the only fathers they'd ever known, their big sisters the only mothers. They had all been raised more or less as siblings the last ten years, but they'd kept their own surnames and knew they weren't related. Jack Blackmore was married, now, to Sarah Hayworth, Charlie Truesdell to Jack's sister Grace; Mark Hayworth had Laura Blackmore's promise that they'd wed when he was twenty-five. "You ain't met 'em," French added, "but Sarah's got a four-year-old daughter and Grace a three-year-old son. But they're too little to eat with the family yet. They got fed in the kitchen while you were bathin', and put to bed. They've called me Grandpa ever since they started to talk, and I reckon there'll be more later on who'll do the same."

"That answers one question," Slim admitted. "Now how about getting to the ones you promised to answer later?"

"You'll have to be patient," French warned. "I said it was a long story, and you'll need to hear all of it if you want to understand the situation. First, let's go back to Bar Comb. Technically, as things go in cow country, it's our closest neighbor—five miles as the crow flies. But a crow is about the only thing that could do it that way, or an eagle. There's so many scarps and canyons and peaks and ridges in between that a man would be lucky if he didn't starve to death tryin' to find his way; he sure couldn't make it on horseback.

"The place gets its name from the man who owns it, John Clinton Barcombe. He's about fifty now. His folks were among the first converts old Joseph Smith gathered to him, back in upstate New York in the '30's; he was just a youngster then. They came across in '46, and three years later young Barcombe was sent to Nevada with the company that founded Genoa. Mormons don't smoke or drink—not even coffee—and they disapprove right severe of card-playin', bettin', or any other kind of gamblin', but they're taught not to be ashamed of bein' acquisitive: a Mormon's prosperity is his church's prosperity, because he's supposed to tithe, to give ten per cent of his earnings into its treasury. The Genoa settlers, once they had the town started, abandoned an irrigation project to take a fling at gold-minin', and that got a couple more little towns, Dayton and Johntown, under way. But it took a good ten years for anyone to make more'n a modest income out of what they dug up in Nevada. On the other hand, there was California just over the mountains, and all them gold-seekers hurryin' through on their way there. So young Barcombe eventually slid on over himself, and he made a real comfortable little fortune. He also got exposed to a lot of non-Mormon beliefs and customs, and after about five years he'd become what's called in the Territory a Jack Mormon. That means somebody who's technically or nominally a member of the church, or was born into a family with Mormon roots, but for reasons of his own chooses not to believe some or all of its teachings or to attend church services and activities. Barcombe's still friendly toward the Church, a mainstay of the Relief Society, but he's plumb doubtful about the Book of Mormon, and he likes his coffee and cigars and strong liquor, and don't care who sees him usin' 'em. All the same, when his only sister died and left a seven-year-old son orphaned, the elders decided to give him guardianship, figurin' he had money to spare to bring the boy up.

"That was in '54, soon after Barcombe came back east from California with more'n a pocketful of gold. He bought land and went into sheep, among other things, and then in '56 he met a young Gentile widow with an infant son. She had a good estate from her husband, and I reckon he figured if he married her he'd get control of it, but it turned out the money had been all tied up legally so that nobody but the widow—or her son, once he got to be twenty-one—could make any use of it. Barcombe went to court about it. Most towns in Utah only have Mormon courts, and they don't generally try any but civil cases, which of course includes bequests, but they and the Bishop can usually settle any dispute without resortin' to the Federal Territory Courts.

"Well, this time they couldn't, not to Barcombe's satisfaction, and neither could the Federal one, which upheld the terms of the will. So he started makin' his wife's life hell, playin' around with other women and such, and meanwhile—how he managed it I can't tell you, unless he paid out some serious bribes, which wouldn't surprise me none—he adopted her son secretly. When she finally got fed up and wanted to move out, she found she had no more rights to the boy; he was a Barcombe. Legally, it was just like they'd had him together but she stood to lose all rights to him by wantin' to end the marriage. She agonized over it for months, but she just couldn't keep turnin' her eyes away from what her husband was doin', and finally she left him and filed for divorce. Had to go all the way to Indiana to do it..." Slim remembered reading somewhere that before the war, that state's lenient laws had made it the divorce center of the nation; it was possible to get a decree in every state, but usually only by private statute—a measure passed by the legislature for that specific case—which might not be something a woman would want to subject herself to. "He didn't dispute it, and in '59 she was set free. She still had control of the money her first husband had left, though; just had to leave her son behind. The year after that Barcombe settled in these parts, and the next year Vernal was founded. The former Mrs. Barcombe joined the migration there and went into business. She's done well, but she's forbidden to get close enough to her boy to speak to him. He's about fourteen now; he probably doesn't even remember her, may well have been told she's dead."

"That's pretty rotten," said Slim.

"It is," French agreed, "but what's to be done? The court's had its say and she has to bide by it. At least she gets to see him from a distance when he comes into town with his stepdad, and from what I know Barcombe treats him well."

"Must be hard on her," Slim guessed. "Now I'm assumin' that all this ties into Jess bein' here, but how?"

"Well," said French, "the first thing you have to keep in mind is that while the Mormons have no special problem with gettin' rich, they don't mine, except for what they need for themselves; they know that anytime anybody finds treasure, it draws flies, and you end up with a boom town and a pack of sinning Gentiles, which they don't want. So they don't look too hard for anything precious. They were here for better than twenty years before ores were found—last year, in fact: the Wasatch Front, the Oquirrh Mountains just southwest of Salt Lake City, and Rush Valley, forty miles beyond that. At least, those were the ores anybody knew of. The fact was that we—me and my boys—had already found some on our land, about three years ago."

"Gold?"

"No, silver. Now most silver is found in complex ores—what they call 'refractory'—in association with base metals, like lead or zinc or copper, or sometimes a combination. The only way to separate it out is by smelting, which is a costly and exactin' process. It was only on the Comstock that stamp mills and amalgamation, like they use for gold, were practical. Often it don't pay to mine it without railroad transportation, access to large supplies of fuel—coal or coke, for best choice—and a general lowerin' of costs; likely the only reason Colorado silver was worth anybody's while was that there was gold there too, and that helped pay the freight.

"Anyway, soon after Charlie's son was born, he was workin' in one of our upper meadows and shot at a rattlesnake; missed the snake, hit the ledge it was on, and the blame thing turned out to be solid horn silver, the only kind you find in placer deposits; technically, it's a soft, 'docile' silver chloride mineral that can be worked by stamp mills and the Washoe pan process. Just out of curiosity, he and Jack took some samples of it with 'em on a cattle drive to Los Angeles and got it assayed; they figured that far from home, nobody'd ever know where it had been found. It came out 250 ounces of silver to the ton—at the government price, that's $750, or about a dollar for every two and a half pounds of rock. No Comstock, but not a bad return.

"We talked it over and decided not to register it; we figured, what would be the point? We've got stock to raise; we don't want to be bothered with hirin' miners, and security, and all that. We take out what we need, that's all; we figure we've got enough for fall-back money for several generations.

"But Barcombe got wind of it, and that's when the trouble started. He offered to help us develop it; said he had plenty of money to spare, and time too, and if we didn't want to go through all the rigmarole of minin' it, he'd take the job off our hands, for a half share." The man's lips tightened. "What he didn't know, because of course she ain't his wife any more and he don't keep tabs on her—figures he's wrecked her life as it is, takin' her boy away from her—is that I've been tryin' to talk Aurelia into marryin' me the last five years. It took her two of those years to trust me enough to tell me about Barcombe and the boy."

"Aurelia?" Slim echoed. "Hardy mentioned a Miss Aurelia..."

"Same one," French agreed with a nod. "She owns the best saloon in town. And I love that woman, and I'd sooner go into partnership with a scorpion and a copperhead than with the man who did that to her. 'Course I didn't tell _him_ that. I just said we weren't interested.

"Well, he kept on askin', and we kept on turnin' him down. And then, about three or four months ago, Aurelia sent word up that he was hirin' gunmen. Just the general-utility tough kind, nobody with any real name. As of recent, he had seven of 'em—eight if you count his nephew J.D., who's twenty-three now and took to hangin' out with 'em.

"Now like I said before, it'd be doggone near impossible to get onto our range by the back way, and you've seen how it is down at the gate: one man with a rifle could hold off a couple of companies, as long as his ammunition and water held out, and long before it was gone the rest of us would've heard the shootin' and gone boilin' down there to help. But because it's not registered, our silver's free to anyone who can find it. The trick is the findin'. You could search these mountains for a hundred years and not stumble over it. Barcombe knows that. So about the only option he has, if he wants to get his hands on any part of it, is to catch some of us off guard and take hostages. And _we_ know _that_. So we've kind of forted up. We went down to Vernal last month, all of us together, and got our winter supplies—middle of the week, when he wouldn't expect it, so we got in and out with no trouble. That may not hold, come spring. Aurelia sends Hardy up every so often with any news she can gather—that's how we've been able to keep track of how many guns Barcombe got on his payroll; bein' paid better than the general run of cowhands, they liked to go to her place, and for whatever reason he never bothered to tell 'em she used to be married to him."

"And these were the men who... were 'taking Jess home with them,' " Slim guessed. "Which I take to mean against his will. And you took his part. It's not that I'm not grateful, but—why?"

"Son, there's an old saying: _The enemy of my enemy is my friend. _ The way we think it happened, J.D. recognized young Jess and got the idea we'd imported him to do some gun work for us—not that we couldn't do our own. J.D. braced him over it, he denied it, and one of Barcombe's guns shot him. Then they headed out to take him to their boss, to be questioned. We didn't know all the details at the time, but the way we figured it, anybody Barcombe's lot shoots and ties up is somebody we might like to meet. Besides which, it just didn't set good with us that a stranger should suffer for our sakes, not even understandin' why. If a man's got to die, it seems like it ought to be for a cause he chooses. So we set up a little ambush and took him away from them. Hit 'em first and fast, the way I learned to in the Texas Rangers."

Slim suddenly understood what else he had been seeing in this man. Mort Corey had something of the same air about him, the still wariness and quiet competence of veteran law, the steady, penetrating eyes. "You were a Ranger?" He remembered some of the stories he had heard from his pa and his Uncle Jack: the Rangers had something of a reputation for stepping over the line into technical illegalities if they thought it was either the morally right thing to do or the only way to get the desired results.

"I was. That boy in there? I rode with his uncle."

"Jess's uncle was a Ranger?" Slim blurted, before he thought.

French's eyes narrowed a bit. "You didn't know?"

"He hasn't been with us very long," Slim tried to explain. "Only about six months. He doesn't talk about himself much; I think he's been through some rough times, and he's still tryin' to decide whether he can trust us, and how far. I know for a fact that when he first came to us, he was chasin' a man he'd thought was his friend, till the fellow cracked him over the head and robbed him. A thing like that could make any man shy of trusting."

"Well, given what he came from, I reckon I can see that," the older man allowed. "His uncle's name was Cameron Cooper, and as good a man as I ever knew. He takes after the Cooper side—looks a lot like his ma, the same coloring, the same delicacy of bone and feature, just coarsened some, the way a man's will be. That's how I knew he was Cam's kin; Cam had a picture of her that he kept near." He drilled Slim with a look. "I'll lay odds he's got his pa's temper, though. Sam Harper could go off like a skyrocket, from what I heard."

Slim smiled ruefully. "And so can Jess. We've gone at it at least half a dozen times since he came... words, sometimes fists. But I'm finally beginning to understand just how much more there is in him than he wants anyone to see. It's a lot to think about..." Pause, then: "So is everything you've just told me. You said—you 'took him away' from Barcombe's men. Does that mean what I think it does?"

"He won't be payin' out seven gun wages this month, if that's what you're askin'," said French evenly. "The only one we missed was J.D.; we think he must have ridden on ahead to report to his uncle. And before you say anything, think about this. If we hadn't done what we did, that boy would be dead by now—and he wouldn't have died easy. At least we made it quick and clean." His steel-gray eyes acquired a new chill. "It wasn't our idea to make a fight of it. If Barcombe would've taken no for an answer, he'd have had no trouble from us. _He_ was the one who brought in professionals—not us."

"I guess that's true," Slim allowed. "But I still need to do some thinkin' about what I've learned. You said I could sit with Jess later—this is later, and I think I'd like to do that."

**SR**

Sarah looked up from the copy of _Godey's_ open across her lap. "Hello again, Mr. Sherman."

"I wish you'd make it Slim," he said, and glanced toward the bed. "I'll sit with him, Miss Sarah. I've done it before."

"Well," said she, "I do have an active little girl to keep up with... maybe I ought to get some sleep. If you don't mind—Slim."

"I don't mind," he assured her. "Your—father gave me a lot of information to process, and I always find I think best when I'm alone and it's quiet. How is he?"

"Better than he's been," she said, gathering up her shawl and magazine. "Pretty quiet, since I came on duty. I actually think he might make it now. Ellen told me how he reacted when you spoke to him. You two must be very close."

"Not as close as I'd like us to be," he admitted, "and that's part my fault. I need to find some way to make him see just how important he is to all of us—me and my family. Good night, Miss Sarah."

When she had gone, he pulled the rocker up closer to the bed and leaned in to check on his friend's condition. As Ellen had said, Jess was "resting easier;" he wasn't radiating heat as he'd been when Slim had seen him last, wasn't tossing around and rambling in delirium. But fever always went up at night, and he was restless; his head still rolled to and fro on the pillow, he still moaned faintly and mumbled incoherently, and once or twice he let out a sharp, poignant, wordless cry so filled with unbearable pain that Slim's heart constricted to hear it. _Nobody should ever have to endure anything bad enough to make 'em make a sound like that, _he thought.

Jess was usually so active and vital, so strong and self-assured, that Slim ached to see him like this, weak and suffering, writhing in pain or fighting fever-dreams of some terrible past—or, perhaps, feared future. _I wish he'd talk about—about whatever it is,_ he thought. _Maybe that would pull its fangs a little. After six months, he should know he can trust us; from what he's said, that's longer than he's ever stayed anywhere before._

He tended his friend patiently, as he had Andy last year when the boy had had the spotted fever and Jonesy had been just about ready to drop from caring for him. He bathed Jess's overheated skin, coaxed him to sip water, and talked to him, softly and quietly and reassuringly; he'd seen enough, before the war and since, to know that even people deeply unconscious sometimes seemed to be able to hear familiar voices and to draw strength from the nearness of people important to them. _I hope I'm that important to him... but I must be, or he wouldn't have wanted to protect me by goin'. And he said he did. Not just Andy and Jonesy; he mentioned me too. _"Easy, easy," he said, "take it easy now, Jess... don't thrash around... there's nothin' here to hurt you, except in your own head. Nobody will hurt you, Jess, I promise... I'll make sure of it. Steady, now... it's okay... you're safe, I'm with you, and we'll be goin' home soon..."

And yet he was afraid. French had said the wound wasn't bad in itself, but Slim knew that fevers could kill, and he knew that Jess seemed to be susceptible to bad ones. "Don't you quit on me, Jess... you're not the kind to give up, we both know that."

Jess made a faint, breathy sound, almost a word but not quite; his head stilled on the pillow, face turned toward the rancher. "Easy, now..." Slim soothed him, drawing the quilt up. "Rest. You need to rest, Jess. Nobody's gettin' past me... you can sleep, there's nothin' to be afraid of here..."

Jess sighed and seemed, once again, to settle. Slim continued his ministrations, relieved that the Texan seemed to have entered a new phase of his illness, a quieter, more restful one.

Sometime after midnight he dozed, still worn and weary from his long search—or perhaps more accurately from the emotional stresses of it, the fear that he might not be able to find the missing man, that he might have guessed wrong about what Jess would do. He never quite knew what woke him; it might have been a sound, or it might have been the awareness that he was being watched. Jess's eyes were open and fixed on him, wide and wondering; they were dazed, too bright, but lucid and aware. "Hey, Slim," he said faintly.

"Hey yourself," Slim replied, smiling, sure his friend's fever must have broken. But in the next moment he knew differently.

"Reckon I'm... outta my head," Jess murmured. "Or else... I'm dreamin' you, maybe. Wonder if... you're dreamin' me? Indians... do that sometimes, share dreams..."

"No, Jess," Slim told him. "No, you're not dreamin'. I'm here, Jess, I'm with you. I thought you knew." He reached out, caught up the hand that lay limp and strengthless across Jess's middle and twined his fingers through it, gripping hard. "You feel that? Is that a dream, Jess?"

The dark-blue eyes rolled down toward it, then back to Slim's face, and Jess groaned softly. "Aw, Slim... Slim, why'd you do it? Shouldn't'a come... should'a' just let me go..."

"But there wasn't any reason for you to go," Slim insisted. "Jonesy was right. As soon as he told me what had happened, I knew there was no blame against you. You did what you had to. Jonesy told you you had no choice, and he was right—assumin' you wanted to go on living. You're okay with me, and okay with the law, and if anyone else has somethin' to say... well, we'll take care of that when it happens. You just get well, and as soon as you can ride we're goin' straight back to Laramie. _Both _of us, Jess."

"I can't," Jess protested, his voice weak, but resolute. "I can't go back. If somebody comes lookin'... Slim, I—I won't, I can't, put you all in danger."

"That's not your call," Slim told him. "It's_ our _danger, and if we choose to risk it, you've got nothin' to say about it. _I _don't care about it, and neither does anyone else. Whatever happens, we can face it together." Gently, he tapped his forefinger against the younger man's temple. "What do I have to do to get this through that thick Texas skull of yours? You're part of my outfit—_our_ outfit, Andy's and mine. Shermans take care of their own." Then, firmly: "Now, you should rest. You're still running a fever. Do you want some water?"

"Yeah... I reckon..."

Slim poured it, helped him raise his head, and held the cup against his lips, letting him drink it down at his own pace. Jess sighed and lay back. "Reckon maybe... finally found somebody... I can't out-stubborn," he managed.

"You got that right," Slim told him, "and the faster it sinks in the better off we'll both be. There's not gonna be any argument about this, Jess. You're goin' home with me and that's the end of it."

Jess let out another sigh, a long, profoundly weary one, his eyelids drifting half shut. "Maybe..."

"No maybe. Now you sleep, and get that temperature down. I'll be here if you wake up again."

**SR**

Jess woke slowly, aware somehow that something was different, but not sure what it was. Cautiously, he kept his eyes closed and his breathing under control, playing possum while he used his other senses to scope out his situation. He could feel a bedtick and pillow underneath him, and the soft lining of a quilt—not a rough woollen trail blanket—against bare skin; that was promising, it suggested he was in a bed, perhaps in someone's house. Or maybe a doctor's office? Somehow he had a feeling that he'd been hurt, but he couldn't recall...

He breathed in deeply, making it seem like the kind of sigh a man might give in his sleep. No, not a doctor's; there was no pungent odor of disinfectant. Instead he could smell clean linen, herbs, the delicious perfume of ham frying, the yeasty aroma of breadstuffs, the bland steamy smell of oatmeal, a faint sweetness of fruit, and underlaying it all a mosaic of burning wood: pungent fragrance of cedar, sweet scent of fruitwood, faintly resiny odor of thoroughly dried-out pine. He heard a clatter of pots and utensils, light footsteps, voices—women's voices?—the distant rhythmic chunking of an ax, a cow lowing, squabble of poultry, the exuberant whinny of a well-rested horse greeting the day, the hoarse yell of a rooster. And somewhere much nearer at hand, the splashing and snorting of someone washing in a basin...

He cracked his eyelids open, looking up through his lashes at an unplastered ceiling supported by sturdy squared beams, plastered-over walls underpinning it. There was sunlight coming in somewhere to his left, and over that way too was the person who was washing. Cautiously he turned his head on the pillow. Yes, there he was, a long-legged man in brown jeans, bare to the waist, bent over a little washstand not more than half a dozen feet away, spluttering and snorting over his basin. He straightened up, a towel in one hand, still faced away from the watching Jess. His back and shoulders were broad and well-muscled, hair cropped short and neat, a golden sandy blond. _No. Can't be..._

"Slim...?" His voice sounded husky and weak in his own ears.

The other turned quickly, and a beautiful beaming smile spread across his handsome face. "Jess. _Jess._ Lord, it's good to see you awake! Really, properly awake, I mean." His voice sounded the way the sun feels on your bare skin on a perfect day in May. He came striding across the open floor and leaned over to feel of Jess's forehead. "Your fever hasn't quite broken, but it's way down. You're gonna make it, Jess."

He licked dry lips. "You... I thought... just—dream..."

"That's last night you're remembering. No, I was here. How do you feel?"

"Not... plumb sure... yet... where... this ain't... your place...?"

"No," Slim agreed, settling down in a Boston rocker beside the bed. "It's the Box Fifteen, a ranch outside Vernal. Do you remember Vernal?"

Jess frowned, picking slowly through a jumble of memories-that-might-be-dreams and dreams-that-might-be-memories, an experience familiar to him from other such wakings. "Yeah... stopped for... supplies... get Trav reshod... directions south... went to... Valley Green... 'member a... good steak..." He paused, trying to make sense of the confused impressions crowding his suddenly lucid mind. "Lady... redhead... Miss Aurelia... we talked... then..." His breathing hitched. "Annison... they... I... shot..."

"That's right. You've got a wound just over the right knee. I haven't looked at it yet; I'll get one of French's boys in to change your dressing later, they've been takin' care of that and of keepin' you clean while the girls tried to get your fever down and some broth into you."

"Girls...?" Jess repeated vaguely.

Slim grinned. "Four of 'em, all pretty, besides little Susie, who's a worse tomboy than Celie McCaskey. But don't get any ideas, two are married and one's promised."

Jess pondered this intelligence. "Does seem like... I rec'lect... women's voices... thought I heard some... just now..."

"They're gettin' breakfast. You want some?"

Jess suddenly realized that he was hungry. "Yeah... but... how'd I... get here? How'd... you...?"

"Long story," Slim told him. "When you're a little stronger, later on, maybe I'll tell you, maybe have French fill you in too." He smiled briefly as if at a private joke. "I think you're gonna be pleasantly surprised by French. And before you ask, this is his place, his and his kids'."

Jess took a minute or two to integrate all this while Slim waited patiently. Then: "Slim?"

"Right here, Jess. What do you need?"

"Slim—Trav...?"

"Traveller's okay. He's fine," the rancher assured him. "They've taken good care of him here, and now that he's got Alamo to keep him company, he's settled right down."

"That's... that's good t'know. He's... we ain't been together but two years and a half, but he's got me out of s'me tight spots..." Jess swallowed. "Can I... have s'me water?"

"Sure," said Slim at once, and produced an ironstone pitcher and a big transferware coffee mug from the undershelf of the bedside table. He filled the mug, slipped an arm behind Jess's bare shoulders, and lifted him gently, bracing his weight as he held the vessel to Jess's lips. Tentatively Jess got an arm up and helped steady the mug as he drank. He drained it and let his hand drop, sighing. Slim let him settle back down, drawing the quilt over him.

"How... how did you... find me?" Jess asked.

"That wasn't hard," Slim told him. "I had an advantage. Remember when we got the reward for Bud Carlin, and I gave you your share? You said you might use it to get to California. You said you'd tried to go once before, but the snow stopped you. I figured if it was somethin' you'd already thought about, you might head that way. Nobody ever heard you say it but Jonesy and Andy and me, so nobody else would think to figure on you doin' that, and I didn't have to waste time unravellin' your trail."

Jess sighed. "Might'a' known... you... wouldn't... let me... go..." He was remembering now—he was sure it was memories—this same room, but darker, dimmer, and Slim in that same chair beside him, fingers intertwined with his own, talking about Jonesy being right, about going back to Laramie...

He knew it was useless, but he had to try. Couldn't live with himself if he didn't. "Slim, I—I ain't forgot what you said... only..."

"Only what?" Slim prompted.

Jess's eyes slid away from his. "I... I ain't good for you, Slim. Even if... if this last thing hadn't happened... I've fetched down... so dang much trouble on you... dragged you away from... your place, your work... from Andy... with Gil, and—and—" He couldn't bring himself to mention Laurel DeWalt's name, couldn't bear to think of how she had used him; nothing in his life had ever shamed him as much as that. "And I—I've taken off... on you when... there was work to do... just 'cause... somebody needed me, like Vic, or... or Roney..."

"And you've saved my life, and Andy's, and Jonesy's. And if Ma and Pa had been here, you'd have probably saved theirs too. If I'm the one offended against, which seems to be what you're tryin' to say, then I should be the one to decide if the score is evened out or not, shouldn't I? And I say it is." He sat a little forward, his high-colored face intense. "Jess, I understand that you've been alone for a while—maybe a very long time. But past is past. You're not alone now. You've got others you have to think about."

"I _am_ thinkin' about you!" Jess burst out, with all the force he could muster. "Didn't Jonesy tell you that? I can't—I can't risk one of you gettin' in a crossfire or somethin' on my account." He turned his face away, ashamed of the burn of tears in his eyes. "I ain't worth that."

"You _are_ worth that," Slim insisted from behind his shoulder, "and it wasn't what I meant anyway, so why don't you let me finish? Think if we were to get word, weeks or months down the road, that you'd gotten yourself killed. How do you think Andy would feel? He'd say there should've been a way we could have kept you with us, protected you—and he'd be right. I'd think the same. That's what I mean when I say you have others to think about. You need to keep in mind that you matter to us, that we care what happens to you."

Jess rolled slowly back to face him, searching his eyes, his face. "Been... long time... since anybody... said the like... to me..."

"I guessed that. I've had plenty of time to think, followin' you these five hundred miles or so. There are a lot of things we need to get straight, and a lot of things I have to make right with you. But there'll be chances for that, as long as you come home." He studied Jess's expression closely. "Just do me one thing, all right? Give yourself some time to get better. Don't make any decisions until then. You know you're in no shape to ride yet. Will you promise me you'll do that, Jess?"

_He knows, _Jess told himself. _He knows I still ain't set... long time since anybody knew me that good... how'd I let it happen? Ain't safe for me, nor them..._ "I reckon... I... c'n promise that."

"Good. That'll give me plenty of time to work on you. Now, will you be okay while I see what kind of breakfast I can round up for us?"

"Sure..."

He lay quietly and watched while the rancher combed his hair, put on his undershirt, shirt, and vest, and disappeared out the door near the bedfoot. Left alone, he turned his head to stare up at the still-not-entirely-familiar ceiling, thinking about what he remembered from last night, about what Slim had just said, about the promise he'd made. _Ain't fair,_ he thought, _to push a man into givin' his word when he still feels like somebody's wrung-out old dishrag..._

He didn't know what to do. He wanted to go back with Slim, wanted it terribly; the pain and loneliness and despair he'd felt in Miss Aurelia's saloon still echoed deep inside him, he didn't think he'd ever forget how awful that had been. He longed to see Andy and Jonesy again, and the familiar sights of Sherman Ranch; longed to sleep in his own high bunk and ride the range with Slim and go into town on Saturdays. But then he would think about the Hamry kid and whether anything would come of that. If he hurt so badly when he was away from the ranch, how would it be to go back and maybe see Slim or Andy or Jonesy wounded or killed because they got in the way of a bullet or jumped in and took his part? He'd lost one family already, and that hadn't even been for anything he'd done; how would he bear it if he was the cause of their deaths? Even if only one of them died for his sake, why would the survivors want him around to remind them of their loss?

He should talk to Slim about it, try to explain... but what if Slim didn't like the idea of Jess thinking about _his_ kid brother, _his _old friend, in those terms? He already had a pretty fair notion of what Jess was, or had been. Jess had been rejected, turned out, more than once before on that account. To go back and then be told to leave, or to be abandoned here because he'd dared to speak up and reveal his feelings... no, he couldn't take that chance. He mustn't tell Slim the way he felt—ever.

The only thing that kept him from contemplating the possibility of slipping away some night (at least for now) was knowing that it wouldn't do him any good. Slim would follow him again, and without the delay of before (when _had_ he gotten back from Denver, Jess wondered) he'd catch up all the faster, especially since Jess knew himself well enough to know that he wasn't back to his proper strength yet; he'd have to go slow, rest often, and stop early—he'd have Slim climbing up his back before he'd ridden fifty miles.

And there was another thing, too, something that became clearer to him as his memories marshalled themselves into a coherent pattern. Something about trouble. Not the trouble _he_ was, but another kind.

Slim had said, Box Fifteen. But Annison and his boys had been Bar Comb. Did that mean something?

How had he come to this place? Was there a debt to be paid? He couldn't go anywhere, forward or back, and leave it. That wasn't his way; it wasn't what a man did.

Slim...

He lay there, trying to make sense of everything he knew and what little he guessed, until Slim came back with his breakfast.

**SR**

**Four days earlier:**

Devon Salbridge had very seldom been at a loss the last dozen years, but at the moment he was about ready to admit to himself that he was exactly that, and thoroughly so. Vernal wasn't a big town, and it should have been easy to get on the track of his quarry simply by circulating around and picking up the local gossip. And so it had been, to a point. He had learned that Harper had been here, three days ago, and had gotten into a brawl with a crew of local gunmen in the biggest saloon and been taken off by them, presumably to their home spread. Apparently he had been accused of being in the employ of some other rancher and had denied it, which Salbridge was ready to believe; _he_ knew that Harper was on the run, although he still hadn't quite figured out where the man was going. He had about made up his mind to seek out the spread to which Harper had been taken, and find out what had become of him. If they'd kept him alive—for a bargaining chip, maybe—he might still be able to arrange a faceoff.

What had him baffled was what had become of Sherman. He was sure the rancher had gone up the pass ahead of him, but he hadn't signed in at the hotel—as in Medicine Bow, there was only one—and his chestnut horse wasn't at the livery or even the smithy. Salbridge didn't like the idea of an unknown quantity somewhere at his back; in his line leaving your back uncovered was a good way to get dead, and a man who would drop all his affairs and leave his ranch unwinterized to come chasing after a friend was a man who might very well be personally offended—no, make that seriously annoyed—if that friend suddenly turned up on Boot Hill.

It was midafternoon, and he was sitting in the Valley Green with a beer he'd barely touched, when he heard a number of horses pull up outside, and after a minute or two half a dozen men pushed through the batwings and stopped just across the threshold. Four of them appeared to be common cowhands. One was young, under twenty-five, and wore frilly black silk sleeve garters, bell-shaped buckskin trousers in the Mexican mode with pearl buttons down the sides, a fancy black leather vest, and a silver-mounted Zuni band around his hat. The last, the one in the lead, was probably around fifty, average height, and dressed mostly like a townsman—dark sack coat and loudly-checked trousers, conservative blue tie carefully knotted under the collar of a frilled-fronted shirt of Irish linen, a black-and-green embroidered vest of watered silk, yellow kid gloves—but his dove-colored hat had the wide Western brim, rolled on either side over the ears, his boots were of finest morocco leather and garnished with large-rowelled, many-pronged silver spurs hung with little bells, and there was a sixgun holstered high in front of his left hip, the butt angled sharply to the right for a cross-belly draw, which was the most sensible way to carry one if you habitually wore a jacket, since it saved having to paw the garment up on the right to get at the weapon. His watch chain was made of nuggets linked together—none very large, but probably worth $40 or better just on weight. He had a carefully clipped and groomed beard of a charcoal-brown hue; his hair was the same color, but beginning to get a hint of golden gray at the temples which somewhat detracted from its tone. His eyes were steel blue, piercing and alert—almost gunfighter's eyes, Salbridge noticed with interest.

The bartender looked up as they came in, then produced a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter and laid it across the zinc surface. He didn't put his finger on the trigger, but it was plain that he could do so and was ready to. "That's far enough, Mr. Barcombe," he said quietly. "We don't mind your hired hands here, or even your nephew, but you're not welcome, you know that. If you want a drink, go over to the hotel bar and have as many as you care for."

This was interesting indeed. Salbridge shifted, sitting forward, watching to see what the man Barcombe would do. Wasn't this the owner of the ranch to which Harper had been taken?

Barcombe for his part had stopped about ten feet inside the doors. The young fellow in the Mexican pants stood just to his right and a little behind him; the others were grouped farther back, looking uneasy. These, Salbridge estimated, weren't gunfighters or even gunmen, and they hadn't come looking for a fight, but they'd been ordered along and that was enough. Still, they didn't like the idea of facing a scattergun; nobody did that Salbridge had ever heard of.

"I'll speak to Miss Blaine," said Barcombe evenly, as if he wasn't the least bit intimidated. He wasn't asking, either; he was stating a fact.

"Miss Blaine don't want to talk to you," the bartender retorted. "Turn around, Mr. Barcombe, and take yourself elsewhere. This here is a privately owned establishment, and if I say you're trespassing, you are. I'd have as much right to shoot you down where you stand as you would if you found somebody not your own on your land."

"That's enough, Ned." It was a woman's voice. Salbridge looked—they all did—toward the door at the right-hand end of the bar. A very handsome woman indeed, the gunfighter observed privately: fine-carved features, sculpted cheekbones, probably mid-thirties, but makeup very professionally applied, not overdone; hair of a beautiful rust-wine red, very sleek and smooth and shining like oiled mahogany, cut in bangs almost to her eyebrows and drawn up toward the back away from her face, exposing her ears, with the ends cascading down her back in cadogan fashion, and no ornamentation except a few gold combs to hold it in place; apricot ball dress with elbow-length sleeves, long yellow-gold kid gloves that reached just to their edges, gold and black enamelled bracelets fastened over them; brooch of yellow topaz and onyx, bordered in platted gold, pinned to the low-cut front of the gown, slender gold chain around her neck suspending a delicate cameo, exquisitely carved, rimmed with small diamonds; long dangling black onyx earrings that emphasized the grace of her neck. "What do you want here, John Clinton?" she asked coolly.

"Wouldn't you rather we kept that private, Aurelia?" he retorted.

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say with the whole of Vernal listening," she said, "and I wouldn't care if you brought the President of the Church, both his Counsellors, and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles with you. Speak your piece and get off my property."

"All right," said Barcombe evenly. "Two days ago seven of my men left here with a man they wanted me to see. J.D. rode on ahead to let me know they were coming and why, but they never reached the ranch. We spent all of yesterday and a good part of this morning combing the route they planned to take. There's no sign of them, not even horse turds past a certain point."

"I know the men you mean," Aurelia agreed calmly. "They were here. They left. I'm not their keeper. What makes you think I'd have any idea what became of them?"

"Because one prisoner, wounded and tied to his saddle, doesn't just overcome seven armed men and take off horse and all without leaving any sign," snapped Barcombe. "It's pretty difficult for me to believe that you didn't have something to do with whatever happened."

She shrugged. "Maybe their prisoner offered them a bribe they couldn't pass up. That kind is as easy to buy and sell as whiskey by the barrel."

_Harper's disappeared? _thought Salbridge. _And seven men with him? Could Sherman have had some part in it? If he did, he's better than I figured. I had him pegged for just another small rancher. _

_No, wait. Sherman didn't start over the pass till day before yesterday, and Harper was taken out of here three mornings ago._

_Still... something's definitely goin' on here that might be worth learning more about._

"_You_ were seen talking to the man while he ate his dinner," Barcombe observed.

Again Aurelia shrugged. "I'm in the saloon business. I talk to a lot of people. And I take an interest in strangers; they often have news."

The muscles bunched over Barcombe's jaw-hinge. "You've got an answer for everything, haven't you, Aurelia?"

Her eyes narrowed. "For you, just about," said she coldly. "Now unless you have something else to ask that's less personal, or can prove any of what you've implied, I suggest you go." Ned quietly lifted the shotgun off the bar and drew the hammers back. The four cowhands looked at one another nervously and began edging back toward the doors.

_This is a strong lady,_ thought Salbridge with genuine respect, _and her people care about her. I don't think I'd care to get on the wrong side of her._ But he had seen in the past what happened when two strong personalities came into opposition; very often it led to gunplay and the hiring of such men as himself. He waited, ready to throw himself flat to the floor if the bartender seemed about ready to fire.

Barcombe waited until almost the very last moment—_He knows her a lot better, maybe, than anybody else here realizes,_ Salbridge thought; _knows just how far he can push before she comes to a point where she can't turn_ _back_—and then snorted and said, "All right, boys. We're not going to get anything here." It was notable that he didn't direct the words to the woman. He turned his back defiantly and walked out the door; the cowboys crowded after him. The younger man in the belled buckskin trousers was the last to go, glancing back over his shoulder as he did.

Ned waited a moment or two, then slowly and gently took his shotgun off cock and laid it on the bartop. "Are you okay, Miss Aurelia?" he asked quietly, noticing how rigid and pale she was.

"I will be," Aurelia replied, "but I think I'll go up to my room and calm down. I'll be down before the evening crowd starts coming in." She didn't wait for a reply, but crossed the room to the left-hand stairway and made her way up it, to vanish through the open archway at the top.

Salbridge pondered the situation for a couple of minutes, and when he didn't hear the sound of horses pulling away, took a last sip of his beer (which had gone flat) and pushed his chair back. Moving casually, as if he had no particular destination in mind and was in no hurry to get there, he left the saloon and paused at the edge of the boardwalk. A half-dozen horses were tied at the rack; he looked over the nearest, a smoke-roan, until he found its brand, which was a bar with a toothed comb to the right of it. _Bar Comb,_ he thought. _Barcombe. All right, they haven't left town. Ned told them to go to the hotel bar. Maybe they did. I think I'll find out._

The cowboys were sitting in a row of wicker chairs on the hotel porch, with beer glasses in their hands, calming their nerves. The building itself wasn't large; Salbridge, who'd spent last night there, knew it offered only a dozen rooms and dining-table space for less than three times that many people. He quietly entered the lobby and crossed it to the bar on the right side, a small room with an ornately-carved mahogany bar and mirror frame to match, and only four tables, at one of which Barcombe and the younger man were sitting with a bottle and a couple of glasses. The room was small enough that if he stood at the bar, Salbridge had a good chance of being able to hear what they said. He ordered a glass of whiskey, paying without argument the nickel surcharge usual in hotel bars, and leaned against the counter, turned slightly sideways so he could listen.

Barcombe and the youngster didn't seem to have noticed his arrival. "...do now?" the latter was asking as he assumed his place.

"I didn't really expect her to admit she'd had any part in whatever happened," Barcombe admitted thoughtfully— "not to me, at least. But she might react differently to the law. I think I'll send someone to Heber City for a deputy. That's a little over a hundred miles, less from the ranch; on a good horse he can be there and back inside four days."

"You don't honestly think she ordered our men killed, do you?"

"No," said Barcombe, "she's not that ruthless. But anything short of it that would give her a chance to get back at me—yes, I think she'd do that. And if it happened to cross over the borders of the law—well, just maybe the deputy could trick her into admitting it."

"What we did wasn't entirely within the law," the other pointed out carefully.

"Maybe not. But who's going to file a complaint about it? Aurelia? She's too smart for that, she knows she can't prove anything—unless of course Harper, wherever he is, can be brought back to testify to having heard what was intended for him."

The younger man was silent for a minute, gazing into his glass. Then he said, "Maybe we should back off a little, Uncle John—think this over some."

"Are you getting scared, J.D.?" Barcombe asked mildly.

"Not... scared exactly. Just... I wonder if it's worth what it might cost us. Seven men vanished without a trace, and it has to be French's work—who else would care about a man who was a complete stranger in town? I didn't think he'd be that ruthless."

"Why wouldn't he be?" the man retorted, though his tone was still easy. "You know what he stands to lose—although I have to admit I don't see why he was so dead-set on not taking us on as his partners." Then: "In any case, those seven men worked for us; they took our pay. They died, more than likely, in our employ. Don't we have some obligation to them on that account?"

"I guess we do," said J.D., though he didn't sound quite sure of it.

Salbridge pushed away from the bar, his drink in his hand, and strolled over to the table. "Mr. Barcombe?"

The man looked around. "Yes, who's asking?"

"My name's Devon Salbridge, Mr. Barcombe. I happened to be over in the Valley Green a few minutes ago and overheard your... discussion with Miss Blaine. I have a notion the two of us could be of some use to each other, if you're willing to talk about it."

"Have a seat," Barcombe invited, and Salbridge toed out a chair and settled into it. "Salbridge? Seems to me I've heard of you. Didn't you take down the three Ferraby boys in Abilene about three years ago?"

"Four years," Salbridge corrected.

"My mistake. Impressive work," said Barcombe. "What brings you over the mountains to Deseret?"—using the old Mormon name for Utah.

"Lookin' for a man," Salbridge replied. "A man you seem to have some interest in too, by what I've heard. Jess Harper."

He saw their attention sharpen. "What might be your business with Harper?" asked Barcombe quietly— "if you don't mind saying."

"Personal," said Salbridge with a shrug. It was only half true, but he didn't want to let on that he was drawing pay from the Hamrys, not when he saw an opportunity to get some from this man as well. "What's yours? Something about someone named French, isn't it?"

Barcombe pondered this for a moment. "That's right," he said slowly. "Mathurin French, sometimes called Matt. He owns a ranch about five miles straight across the ranges from mine." He went on to explain about the silver and his efforts to get a legitimate slice of it. "It's not as if they were making any real use of it," he concluded. "In the last three years they haven't cashed in more than a thousand dollars' worth. Everybody in town knows they've got a lode, but everybody also knows it would be impossible to find by sheer chance, and the only way onto their land is so easy to defend that an attempt to get at it by way of their property would be suicide. Anyway, this town is rough enough as it is; nobody really wants to add a lot of money-crazy miners to the mix. So no one but me has made any attempts to move in. I thought if I made it clear I was willing to bring in professionals, French might have second thoughts. I probably should have known better; he apparently decided to hire Harper instead, although I'm not sure what good he thought one man would do against seven."

"Maybe he figured on more than one," Salbridge suggested.

"Meanin' what?" asked J.D.

"Meanin' I've been followin' a friend of Harper's all the way from Wyoming. Fellow name of Sherman. Except that somewhere between here and the other side of the pass he lost me, or I lost him. Now I wonder if he's part of whatever campaign your neighbor has planned. He was on the loose and in this area as recently as two days ago. There may have been others I wasn't aware of. Maybe they were the ones who took out your seven men and got Harper away." He figured that as long as he didn't frame the situation in any but speculative terms, the worst he could be called on would be making a wrong guess from the information he'd had at the time.

He could see Barcombe thinking this over. Out of his own experience as a gun for hire, he was well aware that any man who would put professionals on his payroll would be quite ready to believe that whoever was on the other side would do the same. "That could be," said Barcombe after a minute or two. "French settled here about the same time I did, ten years ago, but he's from Texas and might have kept current on the best men for hire. I guess you've seen a few disagreements of this kind in your career, Mr. Salbridge. What would be your suggestion?"

"I heard you talk about sendin' for a deputy," Salbridge replied. "No law here in town?"

Barcombe snorted quietly. "You've been in the trail towns. The railroads and local merchants need the cattle trade, so they tend to wink at brawls between nonresidents, and the sheriff, who's an elected county official and needs their votes and support, leaves the matter of policing the streets to men they hire—sometimes a regular marshal, sometimes not—unless somebody does something serious enough for the county coroner or district attorney to issue a warrant on. There may be an ordinance against carrying guns, but it's often not enforced below a certain deadline, and arrests are usually avoided except if an important or popular citizen is somehow offended against. It's sort of the same way here. Vernal's not a Mormon town, and the Saints don't much care what the Gentiles do to each other as long as _they're_ left in peace. We have the usual fights, but as long as everything's fair and above board it doesn't go any farther than the coroner's jury. Damage cases, the local Justice of the Peace levies a fine, maybe some hard labor time. Petty theft, the same. Visiting outlaws tend to mind their manners; they like being able to come here, have some fun, get supplies, and not be bothered, and what they break they always pay for. A couple of the storerooms in the basement of the general store have been fitted up as cells, but they've only been used once or twice, most recently when the bank was robbed, three or four years ago. The citizens made up a posse, chased the gang down and brought most of them back alive, and a Territorial judge came around and held a trial. He hasn't been seen since; there's been no reason to send for him. Most disputes are civil matters, and the Mormon courts take care of those. But I happen to be a baptized member of the Church, and if I make a complaint, the sheriff, who's also one, will think twice about not responding to it." He eyed Salbridge with a hint of challenge. He was old enough, the gunfighter reflected, to remember some of the trouble there had been in Illinois and Missouri between Mormons and non-Mormons.

Salbridge shrugged. "I don't care how a man prays, or how many wives he has. Not my affair. But Harper is. And he's good. If French has hired him, not to speak of any others of his quality, you could be in for trouble, Mr. Barcombe."

"I'm beginning to get that idea," said Barcombe. "What do you suggest I do about it?"

"There are a couple of men I know," Salbridge told him, "who owe me a favor. If the man you send for a deputy was to take a message with him and send it by telegraph—a message from me—I think they'd come, and they might be able to gather up a few others. They were in Pioche the last I heard."

"Pioche," Barcombe repeated thoughtfully. "That's three hundred fifty miles or more. It would take them five to seven days to get here, setting aside time for the telegram to get to the camp from the nearest key station—I don't think they've extended the wires that far yet." He looked up. "Are these friends of yours worth that wait?"

"They started out in Bodie," Salbridge replied, and saw immediately that the other man had made the connection. Though actually located in Mono County, California, near the Yosemite Valley, the mining camp of Bodie lay so close to the state line that it was considered part of the Comstock. Gold had first been produced there in 1852, but not till ten years later were substantial deposits found. New discoveries had kept it in operation ever since, and things showed no sign of slowing down any time soon. It was a rich camp and a tough one, and its dissolute reputation was such that the "bad man from Bodie" had quickly become a part of Western legend. Even the weather played its part: in winter the temperature dropped to twenty or thirty below, with ten to twenty feet of snow, and only tough people were willing to face that kind of climate. For that matter, Pioche, which was in Nevada, wasn't far behind. So remote was it that even the first discovery of silver in 1864 hadn't been enough to keep the local Indians from launching a series of raids and massacres that resulted in the settlers' abandonment of the area. It had taken four years till the trouble could be suppressed and recolonization launched. The place was still remote, and thus had acquired a reputation as one of the toughest communities in the West.

"All right," said Barcombe. "Why don't you get your gear and your horse, and we'll head back to my ranch. I brought some men with me, as you'll have noticed, but my best riding stock is at home, and I want our messenger to have a fresh mount, besides the supplies he'll need for a four-day turnaround."

Thus it happened that, when Slim Sherman arrived in town the following evening, neither he nor Salbridge was aware of the other one's presence in the vicinity.

**SR**

**Box Fifteen:**

From the morning he awoke and became fully aware of Slim's presence, Jess's recovery proceeded quickly. Within two days his fever had broken and he had developed a convalescent's raging appetite. Two days more saw him grimly forcing himself onto his feet and trying to get around on his own, although he moved with a noticeable limp and was clearly in discomfort. Slim made a token effort to persuade him to rest a little longer, knowing full well he wouldn't listen, and then offered himself as a kind of human crutch until one of French's boys could fashion a cane of polished manzanita wood. Jess was pale, and he looked drawn and tired, which was probably completely normal for a man just off a bad siege of fever. There were fine lines of pain around his eyes and mouth, which would be from the wound. He'd lost weight. But more than that, he looked frail, not so much in a physical sense as emotionally. Slim sensed that he was still struggling with the notion of returning to Wyoming, but didn't want to push the issue until the Texan was at least a little stronger.

If the truth were known, he had issues of his own. As he'd already told French, he felt a sense of obligation to the former Ranger and his family, for Jess's sake. And while he had only heard French's side of the story up to now, Bar Comb's treatment of Jess certainly seemed to support the notion that the spread, and by extension its owner, was pretty ruthless. Slim considered himself a law-abiding man, but he was also practical, as a rancher must be, and he'd had experience with extracurricular law enforcement in his young life. He knew that sometimes there wasn't any other option. In talking with several of French's boys, he quickly came to realize that the stockmen and townsfolk of the Wonsits Valley were for the most part thrown on their own resources when it came to settling problems: officially the area was part of Wasatch County, but the latter's seat was more than 110 miles away, and the sheriff, who like most elected Utah officials was a Mormon, saw no particular need to station a deputy of the same persuasion among a remote clutch of Gentiles. Slim also realized, as did French, that even as well situated as it was, Box Fifteen couldn't sustain a siege forever. There were things it had to have from outside—flour and coffee and salt, rice and dried beans, spices, dry goods, ammunition, certain medicines, bar and strap iron, not to mention its mail, although it wouldn't be difficult for one of the boys to make his way quietly down to the town, scout around till he was sure none of Bar Comb was in the vicinity, ride in early in the morning and visit the post office, and be gone before anyone could trouble him.

Apart from that, he knew Jess well enough by now to know that the younger man also felt an obligation to the family, and rightly so. He didn't doubt for a minute that Jess wouldn't move one way or the other without at least making an effort to pay them back. And he'd gotten used to taking a hand in Jess's fights—Canada, Tumavaca, Mac—just as Jess had several times taken a hand in his, most notably the trouble with Branton and Malone.

At first Jess still needed a good deal of bed rest, and Slim was troubled by the fact that he didn't seem to be recovering as fast as he had in previous instances. From an early point it had become clear that Jess was a terrible patient, at least partly because he simply hated inactivity, hated not being able to pull his weight, hated being dependent on others, hated the discomfort and inconvenience and humiliation of it all, hated perhaps above anything else the notion that he might be missing something. But his rather frightening toughness and vitality also gave him a capacity for healing faster than most people would, and this he didn't seem to be doing. Slim wondered if it was the stress—the certainty that someone would eventually call him to task for Warren Hamry's death, the worry that the Sherman Ranch family might get caught up in it—plus the fact that his journey from Wyoming had probably consumed a significant amount of his energy. Having to deal with the effects of these things, besides those of the blood loss and the fever, perhaps his body simply couldn't spare enough of it to properly address the wound itself; certainly when his dressing was changed it still looked rather raw and angry, and it was tender to the touch. A week after he'd been shot, the bed of granulation tissue was barely spanning the open space and filling it in; after two, it still hadn't diminished in size at all.

He spent much of his time sitting on the front porch, doing anything anyone could find for him that would let him keep his hands busy, from peeling potatoes and fruit and root vegetables or turning the crank of the big barrel churn to braiding rope or leather to just aimlessly whittling; he had to keep his winter coat on, even if he didn't button it, and sometimes a quilt or a pelt thrown over his legs, which he grumbled about bitterly because it restricted his freedom of movement. When he felt strong enough to manage it, he'd limp out to the stable and visit Traveller. Most of the time he looked unhappy or at least somber and preoccupied, although he managed to unbend when the household's five kids—Joe and Danny and Susie, Sarah and Jack's daughter Julia, Grace and Charlie's son Sam—came to visit him, clustering eagerly around for the stories he told, the little games he played, and the small toys and gifts he created for them. _He'd make a good father,_ Slim found himself thinking. _He understands kids, and they seem to identify with him and want to please him—I've seen it with Andy. He wouldn't have to keep a strap or a switch at hand. They'd obey him because they wouldn't want to disappoint him—because he treats them like people who have value for their own sake, like grownups._

Slim thought about writing to Jonesy and Andy, letting them know that he was all right, that he had at least caught up with their wandering fourth, although he was still far from sure that Jess was emotionally ready to return with him. But because of the slowness of Jess's recovery and the uncertainty of his moods, he hesitated. Apart from that, he didn't want to ask any of French's young'uns to risk a confrontation with Bar Comb by riding into town to post it, and he was reluctant to leave Jess alone for the full day it would take him to make the trip there and back himself. Instead he stayed at the ranch, helping out with any chore anyone was willing to share with him, taking over the complete care of Alamo and Traveller.

By his fourth day conscious, Jess was joining the family for its meals and for talk and music in the sitting room during the evenings. He was clearly surprised, as Slim had expected, to discover the connection between his own family and French, but from his reaction it was obvious that he remembered his "Uncle Cam" well and had had feelings of both affection and respect for him. Listening, Slim learned that Cam Cooper had been killed along the Border when Jess was thirteen, but for years before that he had visited the Harpers up in the Panhandle whenever he could get away. "Somebody wrote us about him, when it happened, I remember that," Jess said quietly.

"That was his second lieutenant," French agreed. "Your ma was listed on his records as next of kin, so they figured she ought to know. What became of your ma? Cam always spoke well of her."

"She died," said Jess. "About six months after that. Influenza."

"And your pa and the others?" French asked.

Jess was silent for a moment. "Gone," he said at last.

"All of 'em?" French demanded, in surprise.

"Far's I know," Jess answered meagerly.

Slim could see the haunted grief in his eyes and hear the strain in his voice; he guessed that Jess must be thinking of Francie and how he'd learned of her fate. French clearly picked up on it too. "I'm sorry I brought it up," the rancher said.

"Not your fault. You didn't know," said Jess, but he was very pale and there was a tremor in his hand where it lay on the arm of his chair.

French didn't respond for a minute. "Cam was about the best friend I ever had, as well as one of the finest men I've known," he declared then. "I realize you haven't had time yet to get to know us, but for his sake, if you want to stay here, there'll be a place for as long as you want it."

Jess looked up at him, then sidewise at Slim, who didn't say a word. "I'll hold it in mind," he promised after a brief hesitation.

Slim wasn't sure whether to be happy for him—at least he had the offer of another home, if he decided not to go back to Laramie—or angry at French for saying it, since it would make his own campaign just that much tougher. Wisely, he decided not to say anything that would suggest either. Jess was under enough strain, between his convalescent condition and whatever he was thinking about—or remembering. But now Slim knew what he had to do. He might not get any other chances to express his gratitude to the Box Fifteen for taking Jess in. He needed to find a way to help them deal with Barcombe. If truth were told, he had a few words he'd like to say to the Mormon stockman himself. Jess was, after all, a member of his household—still, so far—and he no more took kindly to outsiders doing harm to such people than his father would have.

So the next day he made an opportunity to speak privately to Jack Blackmore, at twenty-six the oldest of the "young'uns," and the day after that he and Jack and Jack's brother Harry saddled their horses and headed up into the higher country behind the valley where the ranch buildings were located. Harry took the lead on his sure-footed Appaloosa mare; Jack's golden sorrel gelding was scarcely less nimble, and Alamo, mountain-bred, acquitted himself well. The highest peaks and ridges of the range lay along the north side, the summit being in many places deeply dissected and eroded into jagged forms that suggested the teeth of a colossal shark; at their bases were immense amphitheaters, and below those deep canyons. The central part was occupied largely by grassy parks, open meadows, and heavily forested slopes, varied by glacial canyons and myriad lakes walled in and divided by the high mountains. Engelmann spruce and alpine fir dominated between timberline and about 9000 feet, white balsam, blue spruce, and aspen down to 7000, and scrub oak and yellow pine for a thousand feet below that, all varied with piñon pine, mountain ash, hickory, and juniper. There was sign of elk, mule deer, bear (not fresh: they'd be mostly denned up now), and even occasionally mountain sheep, which often descended into the sheltered subalpine spruce forest in cold weather to graze on the grass there. Slim could make out the trails that showed where the Box Fifteen cattle had been driven up into the highest pastures for the summer and back down again not long ago to spend the winter in the sheltered lower valleys, much as he and his neighbors did it.

"Nobody knows how many lakes there are in these mountains," Jack mentioned, as they crossed a valley with several small ones scattered across it, "unless maybe it's the Utes—they used to follow the game up into the high country in the summer, dryin' the meat, tannin' the hides, gatherin' and dryin' berries and such for winter use. My best guess, judgin' from what we know we have on the land we use, there's got to be a thousand or so, all sizes. They're every one of 'em cold as ice, and the fish are full of fight." Like his brother he was tall and lean—the Blackmore boys were the tallest in French's family—but he had honey-blond hair and teal-colored eyes. He wore a wolfskin jacket and a broad-brimmed black planter's hat, somewhat faded by the years—it had been his father's—and dressed up with a beaded band and a jaw strap of plaited calfskin that tightened through a silver _concha_.

"I've met some of them," Slim agreed with a hint of a smile, remembering the ones in the lake valley where he'd laid over while Alamo's leg healed.

After a time they came over the top of a long transverse ridge and looked down into a large basin dominated by a lake about a mile and a quarter long and probably a good 1100 yards wide at its broadest point. The basin extended some dozen miles from one side to the other, threaded with streams and carpeted in meadows which were speckled with smaller lakes and lakelets; Slim tried to count them and gave up somewhere around a hundred as the horses descended the rocky slope and he began losing track of which ones he'd tallied already. The largest of the lakes was as smooth as a mirror except where the breeze ruffled it in little ripples; here and there groups of big pale-gray stones stood up from the water like miniature islands. Evergreens crowded the farther shore like a palisade, and beyond them rose a single mountain with broad-flanked, barren slopes of a soft buff hue, varied by patches of early snow, running up to a blunt peak. "We call this Ute Lake Basin," said Harry, "and that's Haystack Mountain."

It _was_ shaped rather like a haystack, Slim reflected. "Still your land?" he asked.

"Might just as well be, for all anybody else can get at it," the younger man replied easily. "One year George and Phil and me decided to do some exploring. We went down into that basin trough at the edge of the range, followed it west and around the end, and started up the creek from Kamas—that's a little farming settlement, not more'n a wide spot in the road, sixty-odd people all told, maybe thirty-five miles south by southeast of Salt Lake City, but near three thousand foot higher. Took us four good days to cover less'n sixty miles from there to Henrys Fork Park, and when we got there we found that the only way passable to anything but a mountain goat took us down thirteen miles into what somebody told us was Wyoming. We figured later that at that point we were maybe thirty-five miles from home on a straight line, fifty-odd from Vernal the same, but there was just no trails that'd lead us to either one. So we turned around and retraced our path, over half a dozen passes and past Mirror and Rainbow Lakes."

They skirted the end of Ute Lake, passed through the trees, and scrabbled their way two or three hundred feet up the side of Haystack Mountain before they stopped. On the other side the land dropped away and broke up in a jumble of folds and ridges of barren rock, with threads of streams gleaming in the bottoms of the canyons in between. The Blackmores carefully turned their horses to face southwest. "There," said Harry, "straight down—that's Bar Comb on the other side of that."

Slim pulled out his field glasses and scanned it. Accustomed as he was to mountainous country, he guessed it wasn't more than two or three miles to the nearest open basin, but probably a thousand feet down, maybe more, and most of it impassable unless you were a bird; he remembered French saying that a crow, or an eagle, was about the only living thing that could make the trip straight across between the two holdings. As he panned the glasses slowly toward the lower ground at the edge of the mountain chain, he made out a scatter of shapes too regular to be natural, and a thin cloud of smoke barely visible above them. "Is that Barcombe's headquarters I'm lookin' at?" he asked.

"Reckon it is," Harry agreed. "Barcombe's like us one way—he set his buildings about midway between his summer and winter ranges. Now if you follow the river farther down—"

"I see it," said Slim. "Cattle. I'd guess maybe two, three hundred all told."

"Bar Comb range spreads out from there," Jack explained, "east and west, parallel with the spine of the range. There's five or six valleys all opening into one another, like with us, and that's where the cattle go in winter."

"Your pa mentioned sheep."

"Yeah, they're mostly what Barcombe runs. Fact is, they're most of what grazes in this end of Wasatch County; probably eight of 'em for every head of beef. That's partly because they're cheap; the annual cost of herdin', pasturin', shearin', and carin' for a flock of sheep runs about thirty-five cents a head, and each grown sheep gives somethin' like six and a half pounds of wool a year, which sells at eighteen to thirty-five cents per. So even in the very worst market years, a sheep pays back its own costs by close to three and a half times—six and a half when the price is up—and if they're managed proper they can help tide a rancher over when the cow market's not good. They're cheaper at the outset, too: it takes a good twenty dollars a head capitalization to get started in beef, but only about $2.35 for sheep. And since you don't sell 'em for meat—not in this country, anyhow; I hear in England folks eat a lot of mutton, but I've never seen it served, not even back in Kentucky when I was a kid—they keep on producin' for ten years or more. They maybe don't bring in the money cattle do, but they bring it in earlier, and like I said they cost less to run. And if you have enough of 'em, it's still a good figure—we worked it out that Barcombe made near nineteen thousand off his wool clip this year. They have to be shifted with the season much more than cattle do, but they do real well in mountain country, which when you think about it makes sense—you hear of bighorn sheep, but never of wild mountain cattle. They don't favor the same kinds of grass that cows do, and they eat as much of weeds as they do grass, maybe more. But the two breeds have a different way of grazin', and that's what can make trouble. You bein' a cowman, you'd know that cattle on the range wander loosely, and they loop bunches of grass into their mouths with their tongues, so it's not grazed too short. Horses, they trample more grass than they eat; they hurt the land but they don't kill it. But sheep move in compact bunches, and they're so small they take five steps to every one of a cow or horse. Their sharp incisor teeth and split upper lip let 'em bite the grass off to its roots, and then their edged little hooves cut the sod up and pound it hard, which kills the roots. They'll eat a country bare, and in a bad season they'll even crop down a forest of young pines, all the while stampin' the ground into somethin' that often ends up lookin' like rock; and ground like that, packed hard and cleared of greenstuff, roots, fallen leaves and twigs and all, can't absorb rain. So the water runs off, makin' washes and ravines, and the country dries up. If the blame critters'd scatter as they feed, they'd cause less damage. The only way to keep 'em from destroyin' the land is to keep on movin' 'em, give it a chance to come back before you bring 'em through again."

"So where do the Bar Comb sheep range, this time of year?" Slim asked.

"Down in the basin between the peaks and the flat," Harry volunteered. "The slopin' mesa lands on the lower side of it keep 'em from wanderin' much."

Slim let his glasses track, watching for the same kind of ground over which he had passed on his way up from Vernal. It covered, he guessed, something like 6000 square miles, a semi-arid, sparsely-vegetated depression punctuated by flat-topped hills and ridges and varied by a couple of alkali flats thinly clad in greasewood and salt grass. Canyons opened onto it from the mountains, with streams flowing down them. He could just make out the wavery light blotch of movement that might be a flock of sheep; he guessed they had to be a good five miles from the Bar Comb buildings, maybe more. "How many does he run, do you figure?"

"Based on what we know he sold of wool, and on the number of lambs they'd have had, around fifteen thousand," said Harry. "Not all in one bunch, though. Sheep in spring smell the grass almost before it comes up and run around frantically lookin' for it, and if they're threatened by some obvious danger they're likely to pack together into a compact mass, mill around some, and then scatter in all directions. So one herder and his dogs have about all they can do to keep control of 1500 to 2000 head. Two with horses can handle 3000 in a pinch."

Slim nodded thoughtfully, tracing the way the stream ran down into the lower country, making sure of landmarks. "So somewhere between five and ten camps, each separate from the rest, probably two men at most and nobody to help them but the dogs. If the sheep got down out of that basin, what would Barcombe do?"

The brothers looked at each other, clearly puzzled by the question. "Reckon he'd have to send his riders after 'em," Jack decided after a moment of thought. "Sheep ain't fast, not with their little short legs, but give 'em a start, especially if they come on good feedin', and they can travel a fair piece."

"You said his herders might be mounted," Slim recalled. "But if they somehow happened to lose their horses, he'd have to call on his permanent hands, unless they quit him over bein' expected to nursemaid sheep. How many of those?"

"With the natural barriers his land's got," said Jack, "he don't need but maybe a dozen at most, and that's for roundups. So at this season, maybe four, maybe six."

"That's what I figured," said Slim, putting his glasses back in their case. "I think I've got the start of an idea. Let's head back."

**SR**

It was late by the time they returned to the Box Fifteen headquarters, too late, Slim decided, to lay out his idea for French and the other boys. Food had been kept warm for them, and they ate, by which time Jess, who still tired easily, was about ready to turn in. Slim made sure he was comfortably settled in his bed, then knelt to pull out from under it a thin, feather-filled comfort of the kind called a henskin, sometimes used in a bedroll as a mattress, which the girls had found buried in some closet, and shook it out midway between the bed and the washstand, parallel to the former. He had explained to French that, although he properly appreciated being assigned guest quarters upstairs, he actually felt more comfortable bunking in the sickroom with his friend. "We've been sleepin' in the same room ever since he came to work for me," he'd said, "and anyway, if I'm there, he'll have somebody to call on if he needs something in the night, and you can all get your sleep and be ready for a day's work."

He arranged his own blankets on the henskin, stripped down to his underwear and socks as he did for bed at home, blew out the lamp and lay down. The house was quiet except for an occasional hint of sound from the bedrooms upstairs. Slim was just beginning to drift when out of the darkness came Jess's voice: "Slim? You awake?"

"Yeah—what do you need, Jess?"

"Nothin'," was the reply. "Not like you're thinkin', anyhow..." Pause, then: "I been ponderin'. Time you got here you was a good five days behind me, what I hear from Miss Sarah and the other girls. Kinda puts me in mind of... of the time it took you to start on my trail when I—went to Mexico. You know what I told Jonesy, that somebody'd be comin' after me. Is that why it took you so long? Was you waitin' for him to show up, like them bounty hunters of DeWalt's? Slim—did he come?" There was no edge of fear in his voice, just a kind of resigned need to know.

The rancher hesitated. He'd figured this would have to come, sooner or later. He knew he could tell the literal truth, that he'd started off within fourteen hours of his return from Denver, that much of the delay had been the result of Alamo going lame in the pass. But that would be "twisting his words around," as French had said of Hardy Medbury, and he didn't want to base their evolving relationship on that kind of deception. "Yeah, he came. The same day I got home, but earlier." He repeated the description Jonesy had given him.

Jess was silent a moment, then: "Devon Salbridge."

"Somebody you know?"

"Not exactly. Ain't ever met him. Heard of him's all. He's out of Santa Fe, I hear tell—folks moved there after the war with Mexico, his ma had consumption..."

"He didn't find you at home," Slim pointed out. "And I haven't seen any sign of him since I left."

"Don't mean he ain't around," Jess retorted. "He's been a manhunter and a scout for the Army, and he don't quit midway of a job. Don't back down from a fight neither, and ain't scared of nothin' on two legs. Been in this game maybe twelve years all told—longer'n me. He's a stone cold killer and he's good at his work." Pause, then: "He won't have give up, Slim. If he ain't followed you, he'll be somewheres around Laramie. He knows how to pick up talk, he'll have heard how many times I've come back. And he's patient."

"You're sayin' if you go home, he'll be waitin'," Slim guessed.

"Yeah."

"You're sure it's this Salbridge?"

"Sure enough," Jess agreed in a grim tone. "That hawk tip in his hatband, and the Smith &amp; Wesson with the bone handle and the steerhead, them's... kind of like his trademark, them and the scar. Most men in the trade've got one, at least them that's got any name."

"Do they? What was yours?" Slim asked, genuinely curious, using the past tense of the verb with deliberate intent. After all, when he was delirious Jess had insisted that he "didn't do that no more."

Pause. "Lookin' like a top hand, 'cept for my gun and my rig," Jess said then.

"That sort of makes sense," Slim told him, "since you are one."

"Wasn't my notion exactly," said Jess. "D—the feller that trained me, he come up with it. Said if I was fixin' to be followin' him around, I should look the part—not so much like poor white trash."

"I find it very hard," said Slim, his voice warm and quiet, "to think of you as poor white trash, Jess."

"You ain't got no idea," Jess replied tiredly. "I never met none of 'em, but my pa's folks—and there was a passel of 'em, more'n a hundred in his generation alone—about th'only thing that kept 'em from bein' plumb mudsills was that every one of 'em with the money to own a horse was a natural horseman." A snort. "Some was horse thieves besides."

Slim thought for a moment about his cousin who'd been hanged for that crime in Denver, back before the war. If Jess was willing to reveal one of the skeletons in his family closet, shouldn't his boss be? _No,_ he decided. _Not just yet. I don't want him to think I'm tryin' to upstage him—or distract him; this is as close as he's come to talkin' about what he came from, except on the way to Canada, or when French asked about his family._

He waited patiently in the dark, but all he heard was Jess's steady breathing. He could tell by it that the younger man was still awake. "Jess?"

"Yeah."

"Jess, you know, your kin aren't you, and they don't live your life for you. That was given to you, a clean slate to write on as you please."

Jess sighed. "I reckon," he replied, but there was a hopeless note in his voice. "Just... don't seem like I ever had much of a chance. Like now, with that kid, and Salbridge. That's why I'm wonderin' about goin' back with you. One way or another, seems like I'm sure to fetch down somethin' on you that we'd both sooner I didn't. Don't never invite trouble, Slim, not a-purpose—want you to understand that. Comes without my askin' it." A sigh. "Times, it ain't healthy bein' around me."

"That's not you talkin'," Slim said firmly. "That's bein' tired and in pain from pushin' yourself too far too soon. And I already told you, maybe you can make your own decisions, but you don't have a right to make ours. If we choose to take the risk of havin' you with us, that's our business." He paused. "When I came home from Denver, almost the minute I stepped into the house, Andy was on me, tellin' me I had to go after you, bring you back. Said he knew you were in trouble. He was almost cryin'. I'm not gonna let you break Andy's heart, Jess." He felt a hint of shame at being so manipulatory, but there had to be times when the end justified the means; if not, what would be the point of resorting to any means at all? He sensed that Jess was standing at a crossroads. If he was allowed to go his own way, sooner or later his gift for finding trouble would lead him into a situation he couldn't handle, good as he was. Slim didn't want the younger man's almost unlimited potential to go to waste, didn't want that on his conscience. He knew that if he and Andy and Jonesy were given the opportunity, they could save him, show him a better way; knew they had already made a start—he had seen the changes in Jess, in just these last few months, even with his several absences.

Jess said nothing for a moment; then, in a tight, flat voice, "And I ain't gonna let you bury him. Ain't gonna be the one to blame for him dyin', or you, or Jonesy."

"That won't happen, Jess."

"You don't know that."

"I do know it, because I know you, and myself, and I know what we can do, separately and together. I've had chances enough to learn, wouldn't you say? We can keep them safe, and ourselves too, Jess, as long as we stay a team. Too many lives go to waste in this country because men make the wrong decisions. Yours shouldn't be one of 'em." It was strange, he thought, that he had never spoken to Jess on such a deep level before now. Maybe it was the darkness; Jess had always seemed most willing to reveal his inner self if he could do it by dusk or later, like when they sat on the porch after supper.

"You put a lot of value on me, Slim. I'm grateful for it, but... maybe it's too much."

"No," said Slim, soft and firm. "It's not. I don't think any man ever really understands what he's worth, because he can't step outside his own skin and see himself as others do. For that, he has to depend on their estimate of him, because almost always he either blows himself up or runs himself down. Like you're doin' now." He heard Jess draw a breath, and hurried on: "Don't say it. It's late. We both have things to think about, to sleep on, and I've got an idea I want to lay out for French and the boys tomorrow, somethin' that maybe can force Barcombe into a position where he'll have to negotiate."

"You reckon?" There was a new eagerness in Jess's tone. "That'd be good."

"I think so too," Slim told him. "And since you've been in a war or two in your time, I want you to get some sleep so you'll be able to catch me if there's a hole in my reasoning somewhere. Okay?"

Momentary silence, then: "Okay. 'Night, Slim."

**SR**

"You told me, the first night I got here," Slim remembered, "that about the only option Barcombe has, if he wants to get his hands on any part of that hidden silver lode of yours, is to catch some of you off guard and take hostages. But that's a thing that can work two ways. The man's a Mormon, even if he's not exactly devout. I could be readin' this wrong, but I think that if he was pushed into a position where he had to give a peace bond before the Church courts—which is a civil affair, the kind of thing they'd do—he might hold to it."

Mathurin French considered this possibility. "Maybe. Like I said, a Mormon's not taken to task for bein' acquisitive, and some I've met could put a Scotch Presbyterian to shame. Barcombe likes his money, likes the power and comforts it can buy him. A couple of times when he was younger, J.D. got into some trouble, brawls and whatnot, down in Vernal, and then Aurelia, God bless her, got the notion to persuade all the business owners in town to put up a united front and demand that Barcombe post a ten-thousand-dollar bond against his good behavior. He set up a squawk you could hear to Virginia City, said the whole town wasn't worth that much, but the Mormon courts agreed that property owners had a right to be compensated not just for lost or damaged property, but for the inconvenience and loss of income connected to gettin' it replaced or repaired. So he grumbled and went along. The bond only stayed in effect till the youngster was twenty-one, but he minded his manners till then—I reckon his uncle told him it'd come out of his hide if he broke it."

Ten thousand, Slim knew, was almost as much as a Cabinet officer was paid in a year, and nearly half what the President got. That Barcombe had been able to divert that much from his accounts into, probably, an escrow for several years said something important about the kind of money he had. "All right," he said, "then the thing to do is to force him to give another one—and make it stay in effect longer, say fifteen or twenty years. That means findin' a way to put pressure on him, showin' him that if he doesn't do it, he'll be in for equal losses. You don't have any law in this end of the county except a deputy swingin' by every so often; you told me that. You'll have to make your own law, because you're all there is, like vigilantes."

"How are we gonna do that?" asked Mark Hayworth. At twenty-two he was the oldest of the Hayworth boys, with the same blue-black hair as his older sister, but dark red-brown eyes and a rather sallow skin tone. The whole family was gathered around the long dining table to hear Slim's plan, even the four "big girls;" only Tommy Truesdell, who was on duty down at the gate, and the "three youngest," Joe and Danny and Susie, who weren't considered old enough to take part in such councils, weren't there.

"You have to show him that you have the power to dictate terms," Slim replied. "Personally I'd a lot rather go right over the Mormon courts' heads and haul him up before the Territorial one on a felony charge, and I'd bet you would too; if he was packed away in prison for ten or twenty years he'd be no threat to you, and even if J.D. was left behind here, he doesn't have the kind of experience to take over what his uncle's doing. But I doubt we can manage that. Jess can testify that he was taken out of the Valley Green against his will, but he never heard anything to suggest that Barcombe had ordered it, or any word of what might happen to him once he got to the ranch; the best we could do with that would be to nail J.D. on kidnapping, five to twenty years, I don't know what the Utah statute is for it, and that would just make Barcombe madder at you than before. But by now he's got it figured out that he's missing men, and since we know that J.D. rode ahead of the rest, he also knows who Jess was supposed to be workin' for, which will convince him that you had something to do with it, though he can't prove anything—if he could, there'd probably have been a deputy down at the gate by now with a warrant. That means Barcombe knows you can be just as ruthless as he can, if you feel have cause for it. And knowin' that, he can be bluffed, because he can't take the risk you won't go as far another time, least of all if the situation's such that you can't be proved to have done anything. If somebody disappears, the law can't prove a murder without a body; all it has is circumstantial evidence. Barcombe could claim all he liked that he suspected you of somethin', but it would just be a case of his word against yours."

"Makes sense up to now," said Charlie Truesdell, a handsome young man with unusual red-black hair and clear blue eyes, "but what have you got in mind?"

"Any man who's come as far in life as Barcombe has," Slim replied, "wants to know that his work won't go for nothing, that he'll be remembered when he's gone, that there's somebody to take over for him. My father did; your pa does. So does Barcombe, and he's not young. He's got two close relatives he can name as his heirs—his nephew J.D., and his stepson. The stepson's only fourteen; he'd have to have some kind of guardian for several years to teach him the business and be his legal representative. The natural one to be named to that job would be J.D., since the two of them have grown up together and are used to each other. If we can get our hands on J.D. and convince Barcombe that he won't get him back without legally binding himself to quit pesterin' you, with the Mormon courts to back you, odds are you'll be pretty safe, at least for as long as Barcombe himself lives."

Matt leaned forward. "Son, you think like a Ranger. What's your plan?"

"We know that Barcombe's lost his hired guns," Slim proceeded. "He has a few ordinary cowhands who'd fight for him or his stock, but they're not warriors—they won't make the first move. Then there are his sheepherders, but they're probably even less martially inclined. What we need to do is cut him and J.D. out of the crowd and away from each other. We probably wouldn't get anywhere by attackin' his headquarters, so we have to get them to leave it. His sheep are down in the basin at this time of year, a nice comfortable distance away from his house. Let's drive as many of 'em as we can off his customary range so he'll have to round 'em up and bring 'em back. One of two things will happen: he'll send his men to do the job and stay home till he hears from them, which will cut the odds against us, or he'll go along, which will put him out in the open and make him more vulnerable."

"And in the first case," guessed Harry, "we slip in nice and easy and wait till we can get J.D. alone, then put him on ice till we can get his uncle to back down."

Slim nodded. "And in the second," he added, "we just cut him out, as I said before. There are six cowboys at most, plus Barcombe and J.D.; we'll have them outnumbered. If we can scatter them somehow, or just wait till they split off from one another to go after the different flocks of sheep, we should be able to pick J.D. off without much risk at all."

Jess listened, fascinated and admiring. He wasn't surprised that Slim had a preference for doing this thing according to the law, because that was Slim, upright and straight arrow, all down the line. He found Slim's familiarity with the technicalities of law both impressive and a little scary; he'd always known the big man was smart, but he hadn't realized just how smart. But the way the man's mind worked!—it was wonderful. As convoluted as anything Jess had ever heard of. _Ain't surprised he got to be_ _an officer in the Yankee army,_ he thought. _Surprised he didn't go no further'n second lieutenant, though. The feel he's got for strategy, they oughtta made him a colonel. Maybe a general._

And then: _But how come he's dealin' himself in on this? It ain't his debt to pay. Ain't his life that was saved._

Slim had turned to face French. "This is your trouble, and your family that's at risk," he said. "It's my plan, but it's up to you to say yes or no. What do you think?"

"I think if I was one of them old fairy-tale kings, I'd be offerin' you my daughter's hand and half my kingdom about now," said French. "We'll do it."

**SR**

That evening brought an unexpected visitor: Hardy Medbury clattering up the canyon on Aurelia Blaine's black mare. Familiar as he was with the Box Fifteen, he passed through the gate and reached the house just as the family was sitting down to supper. A Mormon deputy, he reported, had arrived from Heber City five days earlier; he had ridden out to the Bar Comb, presumably to confer with Barcombe, then spent three of the next four days searching for sign of the missing seven men. Apparently he hadn't found any, because today he had been about Vernal, asking questions about them. He'd been in conference with Aurelia in her office at the back of the Valley Green when five dusty, trail-worn riders came into town, stopped for a round of beers, and asked the way to the Bar Comb. Ned the bartender, who knew a hawk from a handsaw, had provided the desired information and, as soon as the deputy (who hadn't seen them) went his way, had told his boss-lady about the group. "They're gunmen, Mr. French," Hardy said. "Better'n that lot that took Mr. Harper out of town, Ned thought. Miss Aurelia wanted you to know. She said to say that three of 'em kind of resembled one another, and they all had California spurs and rawhide lariats and rode with center-fire rigs and spade bits. She said Ned said he heard 'em callin' each other by name—Alex and Ray and Dennis." He eyed Jess uncertainly. "She said maybe Mr. Harper would know who they might be."

"He does," Jess growled softly, "if the one called Alex was wearin' a flat-crowned black hat and a silver-buttoned _charro_ jacket."

"Yessir," the boy agreed. "She said she kinda guessed herself, but she thought best to ask."

"Who are they?" Slim asked, remembering how Jess had identified Devon Salbridge from Jonesy's description.

"The Moberly brothers. Their pa was an American whaler who beached himself in California back before the gold rush, started a store, made money, got land, and married a girl from one of the old _ranchero_ families. The boys made their names on the Comstock, mostly in Bodie durin' the war. And Miss Aurelia was right. They're a lot better'n them boys that had hold of me."

"So," said Matt in a quiet voice, "Barcombe's uppin' the ante. He's guessed somebody in town is feedin' us information, and knew we'd get to hear of his new hires before long."

"All the more reason for us to move now, as we'd planned," Slim declared. "If we give these Moberlys and their two friends time to get settled in, there's no telling what they'll decide to do. Barcombe will still react one of two ways to havin' his sheep scattered. And if he picks the second, his outfit will still have to split up to follow 'em. We have one big advantage: you and your boys know the country, and the Moberlys don't."

French nodded. "Best way to win an engagement is strike fast and hard and throw the enemy off balance," he agreed. "All right. We'll do it just the way we talked about earlier. Sarah, you'll be in charge while we're gone. You and the girls and the youngest ones take turns on the sentry post; you all know how to use rifles, and nobody can get sight of you from the canyon trail. We'll do the job tonight, while them Moberlys are still tired from the trail."

"I'm goin' with you," said Jess.

"You're not," Slim shot back.

"Yeah, I am."

"You're in no condition," Slim argued. "You can't put your full weight on that leg—"

"Don't matter. Trav's legs are in fine shape. He'll do the work, not me."

"Jess—"

"No, Slim," the younger man interrupted. "I gotta go—don't you see it? J.D. Annison's got my sixgun."

"_I've_ got your sixgun," Slim retorted. "The one you left behind. The only one you've worn these six months except when Ed Caulder came to town. The only one you need."

Jess looked down a moment, then back to him, eyebrows angling oddly as he tried to explain himself. "That ain't quite right, Slim. That other Colt... I know it's part of who I was. I said the cubbyhole was where it belonged, and I meant that. But—but it's part of who I am, too. I was chasin' after that gun almost more'n I was my money when I first come to Wyoming. I knew by then Pete had spent the money, or most of it. But that gun... don't you see, if he hadn't took it like he done, if he hadn't done me dirt in Dodge, we wouldn't'a' never met, you and me. You wouldn't'a' give me a job, nor a place in your house, nor—" He stopped abruptly, took a breath. "And anyhow, I owe these folks. They like as not saved my life. They took me in, done their best to make me well, kept me alive till you could come. I can't let 'em go into this fight without me. If I do..." He trailed off. He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't decide how to put it so Slim would understand. Slim hadn't experienced what he had. He'd lost his home, lost his family—some to death, some to the Big Open, one—his older sister Sophie—to a husband and family of her own. He couldn't let himself lose who he was; if he did that, he'd have nothing left at all. That was why he had always hewn so tightly to his private code of honor. If he stopped being Jess Harper... what was there?

He thought about Slim's insistence that he "go home." If he did that, he foresaw, there would be many clashes

such as this. Was it worth the cost?

Slim for his part was struggling with his own sense of duty. He was the head of his household now that his father was gone, and he felt his obligations keenly. It was his job to oversee the welfare of the others who lived there, Jess among them; to make sure none of them attempted something that was beyond his current ability. He was no more prepared to let Jess get into a fight before he was physically ready for it than he would have been to let Jonesy try to lift something too heavy for his bad back. Yet at the same time he understood that to Jess, as a Southerner, his pride and honor occupied a central place in his value system. He didn't feel he had a right to ask Jess to compromise that, as long as it was only himself that he risked. He was also deeply touched at the way Jess seemed to realize, on some level, that Slim's own arrival at Box Fifteen, his care and coaxing, had played a pivotal part in bringing Jess back from the edge. And he found himself thinking about what French had told him in the office: _If we hadn't done what we did, that boy would be dead by now—and he wouldn't have died easy..._ Clearly Jess also realized this truth.

You couldn't diminish a man in his own eyes, not if you hoped that he would go on thinking of you as a friend. Still less if you hoped to take him home with you and fit him back into your family's life.

"All right," he said. "Under protest, but all right. Only you let me saddle up for you."

**SR**

Around nine o'clock, Slim, Jess, Matt French, and his seven oldest boys slipped out the canyon gate and began working their way around to the basin grounds. By this hour the sheep were asleep and not filling the air with the constant nerve-destroying blatting typical of them by day, but the prevailing wind carried their strong sheepy odor to the raiders and made it easy to find the camps. Box Fifteen split up into five pairs, and each moved gently, into the wind, on the sleeping herders and their dogs, who naturally didn't catch their scent until it was much too late, and in any case had no reason to think the man-scent a harbinger of danger.

As Harry had told Slim up on Haystack Mountain, the running, splitting, and spreading of sheep at first-grass time was notorious, and it could only be controlled by the aid of a horse, which was also necessary if the creatures began bolting from some danger. And the compact flocks that had to be maintained on unfenced range needed to be kept on the move, so the herder had to be mounted. Ordinarily he alternated duties with his partner, one driving the camp wagon while the other oversaw the flock. The raiders moved up on each camp, gathered up its three horses, and then pounced upon the sleeping herders and quickly tied them up. After that, with the herders' horses strung on leads behind them, they got the sheep awake and moving. The bewildered animals were slow to start, but the dogs, accustomed to working with mounted men, seemed to assume that these particular mounted men were legitimate, and helped get them bunched and moving, taking their cue as to direction from the gestures and whistles of the shadowy riders.

Slim found himself thinking about the exchange he'd had with Hardy just before the boy started back to Vernal. Hardy had seemed at once surprised and uneasy to find him in Box Fifteen's midst, apparently as thoroughly accepted as Jess was. "I reckon you figure I told you a windy," he'd said, a little scared, a little defiant, as Slim boosted him up into Velvet's saddle.

"Thinkin' about it, no, you didn't, Hardy," Slim replied. "You didn't say anything that wasn't the literal truth. And you had no way to know that Jess really is my friend. You wanted to protect him because you knew that was what Miss Aurelia had tried to do by sendin' you up here a couple of weeks ago. In any case, if I hadn't fallen in with you, I might not have found him as fast as I did, and that may have saved his life. So I actually owe you thanks." He paused and laid a hand on the boy's leg. "But next time, before you start twistin' your words around, try to find out whether you have to."

The boy looked at him solemnly. "I see what you're sayin', Mr. Sherman. I'll try to remember."

"That's all any man can do, is try," Slim told him, and sent the mare on her way with a slap on the flank.

By mid-morning the sheep had been chivvied down into the valley, where it wasn't difficult to take down some fence rails and throw them onto the property of some of the landowners there. This done, Box Fifteen reassembled at a previously chosen point from which a man with Slim's field glasses could keep an eye on the trail leading down from the Bar Comb headquarters, and settled down to eat and rest for a few hours. It would take the herders time to free themselves and make their way up to the house on foot to report to their boss. Tommy Truesdell took the herders' horses to a little box canyon where they would find grass and water, dropped a couple of pine poles across the opening to keep them in, and rejoined his family just as the sentry reported riders appearing. They were just at the extreme edge of the glasses' range and details couldn't be made out, but he counted a dozen. "Probably left a couple at the headquarters to hold the place, just in case," Slim guessed as he began tightening Alamo's cinch.

Jess frowned. "My arithmetic ain't so good, but them numbers sound kinda off to me," he said. "There's three Moberlys and their two trailmates, Barcombe, J.D., and we figured six cowhands at most. That's thirteen. Don't leave but one—not two."

"They might have a couple of the herders with them," Slim suggested. "They could have mounted 'em from the horses they have at the home spread. They'll plan to find the sheep, if they can, and take 'em back to where they were bedded before. Probably only one herder went up from each camp—no need for both to do it—so there'll be one left to take over when they come back. The other herders could be restin' up after their run for help; later they'll take replacement horses down to the camps."

"Might be," Jess allowed, but there was a dubious edge in his voice. He ran his palm lightly over the walnut butt of the plain black-metalled "working gun" Slim had returned to him. He knew he was probably the best hand with a sixgun of anyone in the party, but he'd have to go after J.D.; he'd already decided that—J.D. had his other gun, the one that had cost him forty dollars plus customizing. It bothered him a little that Slim and Matt French and his boys, or at least some of them, would be left to face the Moberlys and their friends.

But, on the other hand, they'd have the advantage of surprise, and they knew the country. It would have to be enough.

Taking advantage of every bit of natural cover, the ten raiders moved in on the Bar Comb's flank, until by the time they hit the first of the sheep camps some detail could be distinguished. With five bands of sheep to follow, Barcombe and his men would have to split into groups of two or three each, unless they were willing to let some of the animals go till later—and this they turned out not to be. "There goes Barcombe," said French presently. "I can just make out his beard, and that dove-gray hat he likes. Two men with him. Can't tell if they're gunmen or just plain cowboys, but I'll bet on the first, him bein' the boss. I'll follow 'em. Harry, Phil, Tommy, you'll come with me."

The Mormon stockman and his escort appeared to be turning off to the west. French and his boys followed at a cautious distance, and the remaining six raiders went on, with Jack, as the senior of the family, in the lead. After twenty minutes or so, he reined in. "That smoke-roan's a favorite of J.D.'s," he said. "He's splittin' off southeast, one man with him. Up to you, Jess. You want one of us?"

Jess hesitated, watching Slim out of the corner of his eye, knowing that the rancher wanted to accompany him but respected him too much to say so. "No," he decided after a moment. "With me gone, there'll be five of you left. You'll likely all be needed to set up a deadline and keep them others from tryin' to link up with their bosses before we've done what Slim planned. I know which trail they're followin', and I know where it'll lead 'em. I'll cut around and get ahead of 'em, find some cover."

"Take care, Jess," Slim said quietly.

"Always have," Jess replied briefly, but with a warm feeling at this reminder of Slim's concern—not that he needed one after the man had come all this way to find him.

**SR**

"All right," said French. "We should be far enough away from the rest of the bunch that they might not even hear the shots, and if they do it'll take 'em a while to get here. Let's move in."

Harry pulled his Spencer carbine out of the boot and spurred closely after him as he galloped on ahead. Phil and Tommy split up and swung out, pincer-wise, to flank Barcombe's group from behind. As the Mormon stockman and his two companions—one was Dennis Moberly, the other one of his partners—came over a rise, they found the former Ranger holding his black-maned dun squarely in the middle of the track they were following, with Harry about ten feet to his left, the Spencer cradled in the crook of his arm. "That'll be about far enough, Barcombe," said French easily. His hand lay lightly on his right thigh, inches from the butt of the heavy old 1847 Walker Colt he had carried ever since his Ranger days.

Barcombe checked, and his bodyguards, taking their cue from him, did likewise, one to either side of him and a little back. "Well, French," he said evenly. "Now is this just a chance meeting, or did you plan it?"

"Don't try it, friend," came a quiet command from off to the left. It was Phil, with his right-hand gun drawn and his left hand turned back to within an inch or so of its mate. The other Pioche gunman, who had made just the barest hint of a move toward his own sixgun, hesitated and carefully turned his head just far enough to see where the young man was; then, realizing how far he'd have to swing his horse to get a clear shot, he ostentatiously placed both hands on his saddlehorn and left them there. In his business a man learned when the odds weren't worth the play. On the threesome's other side, Tommy Truesdell, Henry rifle in his hand, checked his liver-colored mare almost exactly across from his foster brother's position.

"What do you think?" French responded. "Now let's just keep everything peaceful here, shall we? No need for anybody to get itchy. All we want is for you to sit right where you are till one of my other boys can finish his business with J.D."

"What's J.D. got to do with it?" Barcombe asked, a little edge in his voice.

"Why, nothin' at all," drawled French, "except that he's gonna be what Jess Harper was gonna be, if you'd managed to get your hands on him. A nice little bargaining chip to keep you from gettin' greedy—or rather actin' on your greed."

Barcombe's eyes showed that he was thinking, putting things together. "A hostage? J.D.? You can't hold him forever, French."

"Don't aim to," was the reply. "Just figure to force your hand. I hear tell there's a deputy from Heber City in town. He's gonna witness a peace bond you'll write out, and take it back to be recorded there. Once we hear from the Mormon court, you'll get your boy back, safe and sound."

"A peace bond?"

"That's right. You're gonna give your word to quit troublin' us over our silver and to keep clear of us and everything that belongs to us, and you're gonna post ten thousand dollars surety for it, like you did in town when the boy was cuttin' up so much, a few years back."

Barcombe glanced at the trail he and his duo had been following. "This with my sheep... this was your doing?"

"Yep. Figured it'd toll you out where we could get a crack at you, and it did."

The other breathed in and out slowly. "Doesn't seem like quite your style, somehow. You already wiped out seven men of mine, why didn't you just ambush us too?"

"Well, now," French answered casually, "as to them seven men, maybe we did and maybe we didn't. But we don't need you to be dead, Barcombe. We just need to pull your fangs some. A young feller I've been guestin' at my place came up with the idea, and I have to say it was one of the sweetest plans I've ever heard of."

"Harper?"

"No, not Harper. Friend of his, named Sherman. Smart youngster, and cool too. We could'a' used him in the Rangers, if he'd been old enough back then."

Barcombe's eyes shifted rapidly to and fro. French knew what he was going to do, but he also knew he had to let the other man make the first move; there were witnesses here—gunmen to be sure, but still men who could testify to whether the fight had been fair.

"_Cover me!"_ yelled Barcombe then, and yanked his blue-black mare around. His two bodyguards went for their guns, and the scene exploded in violence.

Dennis Moberly spurred his bay forward in a great lunge, hoping to force French and Harry to swing their mounts off to either side and thereby spoil their aim. But Harry had already snapped the Spencer off his arm and dived out of the saddle, while Phil squeezed off two fast shots that took the second gunman as he turned, one a little to the left of the breastbone, the other just below the collarbone on the same side. Harry rolled and fired, and Moberly's bay went down with a shriek, hurling the man headfirst out of the saddle. Barcombe meanwhile cut off to the left, ducking low over his mount's neck as Tommy's Henry cracked and sent a slug whining past inches over his head. French wheeled the dun as he drew, firing twice at his fleeing enemy, but the black mare was a fast starter; the Walker Colt, though too heavy for most men, would shoot pretty accurately for well over a hundred yards, where Phil's twin Starr .44s and Harry's Remington were sighted for twenty-five to fifty, but when he made his move Barcombe was already a good twenty yards from the ex-Ranger, and the mare, being of mostly Thoroughbred ancestry, could cover eight or more in a single enormous bound. Matt had too much regard for fine horseflesh to fire at the bigger target she represented, and once he was clear of his flankers Barcombe could begin to zigzag.

"He's makin' for Indian Canyon, Pa!" Tommy shouted. There was blood on his sleeve where Moberly's one and only shot had creased him, but a man on a moving horse, especially twisting to fire sidewise or back, has little hope of making a clean hit, and the wound, while messy, wasn't deadly.

"Phil, stay here with Tommy and watch that feller," French ordered, with a jerk of his gun-barrel at Moberly, who was still stunned by the fall. "Harry, come on!"

**SR**

Jess swung out to the north of J.D. and his companion, spurring hard. Trav, who'd been resting and feeding in the Box Fifteen stable for two weeks, was eager to move, and responded accordingly. They circled, crossing an alkali flat and sweeping around the end of one of the flat-topped hills that rose at irregular intervals from the basin floor, not more than three miles from the spot where they had left the rest of the party. Hauling up in a sliding cowpony stop, Jess swung out of the saddle and scrambled up the side of the hill, carbine in hand, leaving the bay sheltered by its bulk from the view of anyone coming along. His leg protested the hard pushing that was necessary to get up the slope in a hurry, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.

Near the crest he bellied down, pulled off his hat, and squinted northwest along the trail, which skirted the opposite side of the hill at a distance of thirty or forty yards, well within the Winchester's range. And here came J.D. Annison on his smoke-roan, accompanied by a man in a flat-crowned black _Californio_ hat and a silver-buttoned _charro_ jacket, sunlight flashing off the abundant silver inlay of his mouse-blue horse's spade bit. _Alex Moberly,_ Jess told himself. _He'll be the one to watch. _He jacked a shell into the carbine's chamber, arranged his good leg under him, and waited until the pair was passing directly beneath him, then pushed up and shouted, "Stop where you are!"

Both men reflexively swung their heads to the left—a bad direction for a right-handed man to have to fire to, since it requires crossing his gun arm over his body—and reined in as they saw the long black barrel aimed unwaveringly at a point just about midway between them. "This don't have to be no harder'n you make it," Jess went on. "I only want you, Annison, and my Colt back."

He saw the younger man flinch in surprise. "Harper? Is that you?"

"That's right," Jess agreed. "Now what I want you to do is hold your horses where they are, and both get down nice and easy. That goes particular for you, Moberly. I ain't meanin' no harm here unless one of you pushes me, and Barcombe won't be too pleased with you if you make me shoot his nephew."

"What's your game, Harper?" J.D. demanded as he began carefully swinging his leg over his roan's quarters.

"Just a little exercise in hostage-takin', is all," Jess replied. "You're gonna be French's guest a spell."

"Why?" asked J.D., dropping his reins as his foot touched the ground, and raising both hands to shoulder level.

Jess was reserving most of his attention for Moberly, whose closed California reins couldn't be dropped, requiring him to use the _mecate_ to lead, tie, and ground-rein. "You'll find out," he said meagerly. _This is too_ _easy, _he told himself. _A man with a rep like Alex Moberly's shouldn't give up this easy, not even when he's covered—_

At which point Moberly showed him how right he was, by falling backward as he drew. Technically, being higher up, Jess had the advantage, since a man below you, with gun undrawn, had to not only get it out of leather but raise it at an angle before he could do you any harm. But it was also almighty easy to overshoot on a downhill target, and even though Jess knew enough to aim at his quarry's knees in such a case, compensating for the bullet's tendency to go high, a dropping target is one of the hardest of all to score on.

In a gunfight there was no time to think things out; you had to act on reflex and training and your gunfighter's instinct, and Jess's told him to take the more dangerous enemy first. But it also told him to duck, and when he did that his not-entirely-healed leg gave way under him and he fell forward, twisting desperately as he did. He felt the leg strike the rock he'd been using for cover, bit his tongue at the wave of dizziness and fiery agony that answered the blow, threw himself over on his back and rolled, and came up again a few feet to the left of where he'd started. Moberly had expected him to go right, which was what most right-handed men would automatically do, and that was the Californian's undoing. Jess's first, almost unthinking shot had missed him by a good three feet, but the second, triggered as Moberly rolled left and flung himself erect, got him in the pit of the throat and he went down without a sound.

J.D.'s roan reared in fright at the scent of blood, which kept the young man from getting hold of its reins; unable to reach his rifle, he went for his sixgun—Jess's sixgun—instead. But, like Pete Morgan before him, he found that a gunfighter's gun with the grips customized to the contours of its rightful owner's hand is somewhat like a well-used saddle, which over time acquires tiny bumps and hollows that suit the particular owner's anatomy well but often resist the contours of a stranger. His palm slipped on the smooth ivory, and the gun came half out of the holster, slewed sideways, and fell to the ground. J.D. lurched backward, and Jess fired again, the bullet buzzing past his ear. _"Give it up!"_ the Texan yelled, and J.D., seeing that he was helpless, decided he had no other option.

Jess's heart was pounding and his leg felt as if it was on fire. He wasn't at all sure he could get down the slope to where J.D. stood, but he had to, somehow—had to recover his Colt and secure his prisoner. His head snapped up at the sound of a horse approaching at a full flat-out gallop. He saw the familiar soft-brown, curl-brimmed hat first, then Alamo's distinctive blaze. _Slim?!_

The chestnut pulled up in the same sliding, squatting style as Trav had, and Slim piled out of the saddle, scooped up the lost sixgun, stuffed it through his belt, grabbed J.D.'s right arm and jerked it hard around. "Jess! Are you all right up there?"

"Told you—I didn't—need no help!" Jess retorted breathlessly.

"No, you told us you didn't want one of us with you, and when has that stopped me?" Slim shot back, producing a six-foot piggin string, the length of rawhide or soft rope without which no cowboy or cattleman rides, and whipping it expertly around J.D.'s wrists as he would have tied a calf. He gave his prisoner a quick shove that dropped him to his knees, and came up the slope in long scrambling strides. "I knew it," he said as he caught sight of the fresh blood on Jess's leg. "Are you hit?"

"Naw—just—banged it, tryin' to—get out of Moberly's line of fire..."

"And started it bleeding again," Slim snapped, pulling out his pocketknife and ripping up the seam and across so he could get a look at it. "Didn't I tell you you were in no condition to come along? _Didn't_ I? Now see what you've done to yourself."

"You ain't the boss of me!" Jess retorted, though the ill-tempered tone was at least partly a reaction to the pain.

"Oh, I'm not? I'll remind you of who pays you your wages every month!" Slim bent over the sullenly bleeding wound, grumbling to himself: "Hard-headed, unreasonable, stubborn—"

"Stubborn?" Jess taunted. "Who was it come five hundred miles after me?"

"Who was it wouldn't listen when he was told to stay where he belonged?"

"I ain't—aaah!" Jess gasped. "Dang, hardcase, watch what you're doin'!"

"That's better," Slim told him. "Just quit arguin' and let me work."

**SR**

Barcombe plunged into the mouth of Indian Canyon, following the river that had cut it. The blue-black mare lacked the surefootedness a range pony would have had, but no fault could be found with her heart. She scrambled and scrabbled up the sloping sides of the canyon, away from the watercourse. French and Harry came close behind, turning aside to follow as they saw where disturbed sand and pebbles were streaming down in the wake of her hooves.

"Where's he think he's goin'?" Harry wondered aloud. "This canyon just gets narrower and steeper as you go higher up. Eventually, if he don't take a fall, he'll come out on the same trail George and Phil and me found, a few years back, but all that'll do is take him west to Kamas or east to the dead end, more or less, at Henrys Fork Park."

"Don't seem Barcombe's style to panic," his foster-father agreed, "but this is the way he's headin'."

"We could just let him go," Harry suggested. "Time he figures out that he's got no choice but to turn around, Jess'll have J.D. right where we want him. We can be waitin' at Bar Comb when he comes back..."

"I know it," said French, "but as long as that deputy's in town, there's no point wastin' him. I'd rather have the bond sworn in front of him than have to haul Barcombe all the way to Heber City to give it. Let's go."

The trail led them higher, twisting its way between boulders and fields of scree where the mare's scrambling hooves had disturbed the loose rock and set it sliding. Abruptly it swung back toward the river. Ahead the two men could hear brush crashing and ripping as something large and heavy forced a path through it. And then—

—a shout, a high frightened whinny, the clattering rushing of disturbed stones—

—and a great walloping splash—

They broke through the juniper scrub and hauled back on their reins barely in time; Harry's Appaloosa mare, slightly in the lead, toe-danced on her tough, hard-grained, black-and-white-striped hooves, reared and turned in her own tracks, sending streamers of debri hurtling into the water a hundred feet or more below as she lunged back to safety. "Good Lord," said French, his voice just a little shaky, "did he—?"

"Sure looks that way," Harry agreed. "He must've lost track of his directions in the scrub. I saw a big splash of foam down there, like somethin' heavy had hit the water and sunk."

Matt pushed his hat back and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "I never meant that to happen."

"I know you didn't, Pa."

The older man sighed. "Well," he said, "now we'll only have J.D. to deal with, and that might be easier. Let's go back and see if Jess did what he set out to."

"Reckon we should try to find...?" Harry began.

"No," said French. "There's no sayin' how far the river'll carry 'em, if they didn't sink right off. Closest it'll come to Vernal is twenty miles or more down the Green. Time a search party could be got up, Barcombe's body could be halfway to the Colorado. Come on." He turned the dun carefully and began retracing the line of broken brush that showed which way they had come.

**SR**

"He's dead?" asked J.D. Annison. "Are you sure?"

"We didn't see him go over," Harry admitted, "and we didn't try to find him. But what we heard and saw tells the tale."

They had rejoined the rest of their party at the deadline where Jess had split off from it, to find that he and J.D. had been brought back by Slim, along with Alex Moberly's horse and body. Slim had had to sacrifice most of his shirt to serve as an emergency dressing to stop Jess's bleeding, but the Texan had stubbornly refused to be put on a travois. The rest of the Bar Comb party was presumably still chasing sheep; at least none of them had come back yet.

J.D. looked down at the ground. "So what happens now?"

"We never asked for this fight, you know that," French told him. "We're not interested in makin' a fortune; we told your uncle that more than once. And you shouldn't need any more than what you'll probably get of his estate and what you can make from his interests. I know he's still got mining investments all over, besides his land and stock and some town property—why, boy, your wool alone fetched in five digits this year; how much do you reckon you and young Davy _need_ to live comfortably? Prosperity's one thing, but greed's another."

"So you're sayin' if we leave you alone, you'll leave us alone?" J.D. guessed. "Just forget the whole business?"

"If your uncle had given up when he had the chance, by what I hear," Slim put in, "he'd be alive now. He made his choice, and it led to something he probably wasn't countin' on. Choices do that, sometimes. Yours could too, if you keep pushin' the matter. You've got a young cousin who'll likely be made your ward. Think about him."

That seemed to give the younger man pause. "I guess you've got a point," he admitted. And to French: "Do you still want that peace bond?"

"I'll take your word, if you'll give it," Matt told him.

J.D. pondered this for a minute or two, then sighed and nodded. "All right, you've got it. I'll make no more tries against your silver ledge, Mr. French, or against anything or anyone that's yours. Now can I go home? I need to tell Davy what happened—as much as he'll understand of it."

"Go on, and take your other dead with you," said French. "Your crew'll filter back as they find them sheep and get 'em back where they belong. Just pay off the Moberlys and their friends, you won't be needin' them any more."

"No, I reckon we won't," J.D. agreed.

Fifteen minutes later he and Dennis Moberly, with the bodies of Alex and the other Pioche gunman slung across the backof the latter's horse and Dennis on Alex's with his saddle held on behind it, were two thousand yards up the trail, and the Box Fifteen party, with its two wounded, had turned east to make their way back to their own canyon.

**SR**

After Jess had had his wound re-stitched and -dressed and been more or less forcibly put to bed, and the family had eaten supper, Slim joined Matt French in the office as he had his first evening, and the former Ranger broke out the Dr. Packard's. Slim was a little surprised at how shaken his host seemed by Barcombe's fate, especially considering how calmly he'd admitted to killing the gunmen who'd been taking Jess to Bar Comb. But after a short time he began to understand that it was simply the difference in the two situations. With a former peace officer's pragmatism, he'd recognized that seven professional guns would have been unlikely to give up their prisoner to eight men who weren't, whereas he'd figured that Barcombe, as a practical businessman, would see that he was backed into a corner. He also hadn't expected such a dramatic gesture from the Mormon stockman, although he seemed to think that it hadn't been intentional, that Barcombe had, as Harry had suggested, simply gotten turned around in the brush and gone over the lip of the canyon almost before he knew it was there.

"What do you think will happen now?" Slim asked. "I mean with Barcombe out of the picture?"

"Well, of course I don't know what might be in his will," Matt admitted, "though my guess is that he'll have left part of his estate to his nephew and part to his stepson, maybe named J.D. the boy's guardian. If he didn't, the Mormon courts probably will; Davy's lived with J.D. almost as a big brother for as far back as he can remember, they're used to each other, they get along, and besides that J.D. knows his uncle's business likely as well as anybody does. That might put a damper on him for seven years or so, till Davy turns twenty-one, and by then J.D.'ll be thirty and not so likely to do somethin' crazy as he might be now. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if Aurelia petitioned to have Davy returned to her; after all, she's his mother by birth, and Barcombe was only his adoptive father. It's not like Barcombe brought him up a devout Mormon."

"You know," said Slim thoughtfully, "she ought to know about this. The man was her ex-husband, after all, and like you say, he's no longer alive to contest custody of her son."

Matt looked at him as if this idea had never occurred to him. "Well, great land of cows," he said quietly after a minute. "You're right, son. Nobody but us would think of it, because nobody else knows what happened _and_ knows they were ever married; she didn't live in Vernal then. And now that J.D.'s give his word not to trouble us, there's no reason we can't go to town if we feel like it. So far winter seems to be takin' its time gettin' here, but I've seen years when the canyon was snow-blocked by the first of December; we should go down anyway and try to get our Christmas shoppin' done while we still can." With a keen glance at the younger man: "You know, you and Jess are welcome to stay here for as long as you like—I shouldn't have to tell you that; but you havin' land and folks waitin' for you back in Wyoming, maybe you should be thinkin' of gettin' on the move back there. You've got South Pass to cross, after all."

"I know," Slim agreed. "I'm just concerned about whether Jess is up to the trip, especially after what happened today."

"Well, the wound's not in a place where the saddle would rub on it," Matt pointed out. "And I've got a notion that if he didn't feel like he was bein' treated like an invalid, he might not be so much of one. Does that make any sense to you? You've known him longer'n I have."

"It does," Slim admitted. "He doesn't take to lyin' in bed. He hates bein' laid up; it makes him restless. After ten years in the Big Open I shouldn't be surprised at it, but somehow the more chances he gets to show that he's recoverin', the likelier he is to do it."

"How about this, then?" Matt suggested. "You tell him in the mornin' that we'll plan for a trip to Vernal day after tomorrow, that bein' Saturday anyhow, and then the next day the two of you will start home. That'll give him a full day to anticipate a day of freedom, and push him into decidin', maybe, whether he means to go east or west—or just stay where he is, at least till spring. In the one instance, he'll figure you're ready to stop treatin' him like an invalid, and that should help him a lot. In the other two, he'll have to be prepared to defend his decision to you, maybe to ride out on his own. Whichever, he'll have a real excuse to stop thinkin' of himself as somebody others see as needin' care."

Slim smiled. "I think you've had a bit of experience with restless young convalescents yourself."

Matt chuckled. "None of my boys are quite so bull-headed as Jess is, but it's true, they do make life interestin' when they're down, and you bein' a stockman too you know how often that can happen. All right, that's how we'll do it."

**SR**

It had been a long day, J.D. Annison reflected as he walked down the hall toward his uncle's ranch office—his own now, he supposed. Not only that, it had turned his world end for end. This morning he'd been only the _segundo_ on this ranch, still learning the ropes and the books and something of the Barcombe investments. Tonight he was effectively the boss, not to mention the guardian (though yet to be legally confirmed as such) of his step-cousin Davy, whom he'd just seen to bed. He'd waited till the last of the groups of sheep-hunters came back to report the flocks returned to their pastures, and told them what had happened, all at once. He'd assigned someone to go around to the sheep camps in a few days and let the herders know about it. He'd made sure that Dennis Moberly recounted what he had seen of French's confrontation with Barcombe, and had described his own experience with Jess Harper. He'd satisfied himself that the Moberlys accepted their oldest brother's death as having been a fair fight and one that had occurred in the line of duty, and therefore not something for which they were obligated to seek revenge. He'd given them leave to bury him on the hill behind the house, and the other Pioche gunman too, and then he'd paid the three survivors off—a full month, which they hadn't earned—and sent them on their way; Salbridge had agreed to go in the morning. After that he'd had to explain things to the house staff, and sit down with Davy and give him the news. And tomorrow he'd need to write to his uncle's attorney in Heber City and have him file Barcombe's will for probate, though he already knew the most relevant part of what was in it. A long day, indeed. This morning he'd been twenty-three; tonight he felt at least ten years older. Part of that was shock, he supposed, and it would recede in time. But it was still a lot of responsibility to have thrown onto his shoulders with no warning whatsoever.

He opened the office door and turned to the right, reaching into his pocket for his match safe, snapping a match alight and leaning over to put the flame to the wick of the porcelain-based oil lamp on the stand. Warm yellow light fanned out into the room. "Hello, J.D.," said someone behind him.

He whirled, his hand going reflexively for the gun he wasn't wearing, and stared in open-mouthed disbelief at the man slouched in the brass-studded leather chair behind the large rectangular black-topped desk. "Uncle John? But—but you're dead!" he exclaimed.

"Hardly," the man retorted. He looked worn enough, his clothes dirty and torn as if he'd spent some time fighting his way through thick brush. His saddle lay beside the chair, and on the desk in front of him stood a bottle of potent Sazarac brandy and a half-full glass. "I just let French and the rest of them think I was."

"But... but how did you... they said you went over the edge of the canyon!"

"Only my horse," Barcombe explained. "I got a little distance on them in the junipers, so they couldn't see me, and then jumped off, stripped off the saddle, yelled and slapped her on the flank and drove _her_ over. They were near enough to hear the splash, and by the time they got there I was belly down in the scrub. That's three hundred dollars French owes me for that mare," he added bitterly.

J.D. slowly crossed the room to slump down in one of the wingback chairs that faced the desk. "How did you get in here?"

"Through the back door, while you were giving the news to Eliza and the others." Eliza was the cook; before the war the Mormons had been strongly anti-slavery, readily admitting free blacks to their conclaves, and many of these had joined the migration to Utah—all the Barcombe house staff was black, most of them Eliza's kinfolk.

"But why didn't you just show yourself?" J.D. demanded.

"Because I didn't want the word to get around," said Barcombe. "Are Salbridge and the others still here?"

That told J.D. that his uncle hadn't been in the house for more than an hour or so; well, he'd had quite a ways to walk, and lugging that heavy saddle. "Salbridge is. I gave the others their time and sent them on their way."

Barcombe considered this. "All right. I think we can manage without them anyway. Go find Salbridge and bring him back here."

Accustomed to following his uncle's directives and still benumbed by the understanding that he wasn't going to have to be the man in charge after all, J.D. did as he was told. Salbridge, predictably, took the revelation better than he had, probably in part because his profession demanded that he meet changing situations calmly, partly because he had no such bond with the man as J.D. did. "The way you kept yourself out of sight," he observed, "I've got a notion you're not finished with Box Fifteen."

"Better believe I'm not," Barcombe growled. "I've been sitting here in the dark thinking over which way to go next. French didn't bring his family to town any of the last few Saturdays; we'd have seen them if he had. I'm guessing he was prepared to sustain a siege at least over the winter, and stocked up some time before that. But now he'll figure he doesn't have to stay forted up any more, and he'll come down sooner rather than later—probably even day after tomorrow. When he does—when he's away from that natural fortress he calls his ranch—then we can take him."

"Before Harper and his friend leave?" Salbridge asked. In the process of explaining how he happened not to be dead, Barcombe had recounted French's mention of the "young feller he'd been guesting at his place," and the gunfighter had naturally recognized the name and reminded him that he had been following just such a friend of Harper's when they'd met.

"Oh, definitely, if we can do it," Barcombe agreed. "I've got a bone or two to pick with them too."

"You won't be able to show yourself around Vernal," mused Salbridge. "We already know French has some kind of pipeline there."

"Won't have to. There's a vacant cabin about two miles south of town. It's still sound. I can hole up there, and you and J.D. can stay in town and keep an eye on events as they develop. When you see Box Fifteen, one of you ride out and tell me, and then we'll set things in motion."

J.D. had been listening in silence. "I'm not takin' any part in this, whatever it is, Uncle John," he said. "I can't. I know I've got no authority over what you do, but I gave French my word I'd leave him and his alone from now on, and that's binding on me."

Barcombe eyed him thoughtfully. "Seems to me you caved in pretty easily."

"I had Davy to think of, and the ranch, and all your other interests," J.D. pointed out. "Who else would there be to take care of them if I kept on and got myself killed too? Besides, French said somethin' that made a lot of sense. He asked me how much Davy and I really _needed_ to live on comfortably, and he was right. And..." He paused uncertainly, then went on, choosing his words with care. "Up to when Harper came to town, it didn't seem like such a bad thing we were doin'. But I've thought about it, and I just wonder if maybe he wasn't tellin' me the truth when he claimed he hadn't been hired. Men in his line drift; everybody knows that. What's to prevent one from wanderin' right into the middle of a situation like ours without realizin' it existed? Salbridge did it. I'm not sure I like the idea of treatin' a man like we did Harper, maybe killin' him in the end, just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Barcombe considered this. "All right," he said at last. "You won't have to act against them if that's how you feel. Just carry word from Salbridge to me, and maybe do a little... sentry duty afterward. Would that compromise your principles?"

"I reckon not," J.D. replied slowly. "But why would you need me to do sentry duty?"

"You'll see," was all Barcombe said.

**SR**

**The next day:**

In general, a sheriff in the West, as in the East, was an elected county official, but in mining country it was very common for each district to have one of its own and to operate almost as a county itself, in part because mining camps were generally more or less isolated and very often situated in rough landscapes where communication between entities was difficult and time-consuming at best. Idaho Springs was no exception. Its sheriff, Daley Burness, was naturally familiar with the Hamrys, and they in turn knew him well. So Justin Hamry wasn't particularly surprised to be hailed by him on his way back from the post office Friday morning.

"You know, I'm glad I fell in with you," Burness told him after they'd exchanged the normal pleasantries. "I was thinkin' just yesterday, it's been a time since I've seen that man Salbridge of yours. I'm just wonderin' if you or your dad sent him off on some job and forgot to let me know—just in case he gets in trouble, it'd help if I knew where he was and why. It does seem like the wrong time of year for it," he allowed, "but maybe not if it's minin' business."

"No, it's not mining business," said Justin. "We sent him up to Laramie to look into how Warren was killed. He wrote back it was done by a professional, just the way Dad thought, and he was off after the man." He frowned briefly. "We haven't heard from him in a couple of weeks now..."

"A professional? You mean somebody paid to settle for that to-do in Georgetown?"

"He didn't exactly say that," Justin admitted, "but what else could it have been? Warren could be wild, but I can't see him calling a man with a reputation like Harper's."

"Harper?"

"That's right, Jess Harper," Justin amplified.

Burness considered this. "I'm thinkin' you might have been slickered, you and your family, Justin. I guess you didn't know. Back in '68, it was, somewhere in north Texas, Harper hired out with a freighting company that was havin' trouble with a big rival tryin' to run it out of business. I don't have all the details, but an old partner of Salbridge's, a man named Jervis, was workin' for the other side, and he decoyed Harper into a trap and got him beat up pretty badly. Soon as Harper was on his feet, he went hunting. Called Jervis out and killed him."

"Fair fight?" asked Justin quickly.

"The way I heard the story, about as fair as they come. Jervis's gun was clear of the holster before Harper's hand even moved. He got off one shot, broke a window behind Harper and ten feet left of him. Harper didn't miss."

Justin stood quite still for a minute or two, mentally connecting dots. "Salbridge knew Dad was half convinced going in that those Laramie depositions might not tell the whole story," he mused at length. "He figured that if he said it was a professional thing, we'd accept that. He wanted us to think Harper killed Warren on a hire, like you said. But what he was really looking for was a chance to settle scores for his friend Jervis."

"That's the way it looks to me," Burness agreed. He eyed the younger man keenly. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm not sure what I _can_ do," Justin admitted. "I don't know where Harper is, or Salbridge either. But maybe... maybe someone up in Laramie does. It's a long shot, but it's the only chance I've got of stopping a fight that doesn't have to happen, any more than Warren's death had to if he'd only showed sense... I just never thought he'd be that stupid, I didn't realize he might be looking to make a name as a real gunfighter..." Then: "One thing, though, Daley, if you would—come back to the hotel with me and tell Dad about this fight in Texas. It's probably something he can check into—it may take time to write down that way and get a reply, but at least he can't accuse _those_ people of wanting to protect Warren's killer."

"No, he can't," Burness agreed. "They never heard of the Hamrys, so they'd have no reason to. Sure, I'll come."

**SR**

**The day after:**

"You don't have to wear that," Slim said mildly, watching as Jess awkwardly struggled with his gunbelt while trying not to put his weight on his injured leg. "Bar Comb's fangs are pulled, which is just what we hoped to accomplish. Besides, how do you expect to draw with that cane to manage?"

Jess looked up from his task. "I ain't seen _you_ leave the ranch without a sixgun on your hip," he noted. "I been wearin' one so long I feel plumb lopsided without it. Naked, too," he added.

"Well... I guess that's a point," Slim admitted. "But do you have to wear _that_ one?" The gun in Jess's holster was the ivory-butted customized Colt he'd recovered from J.D. Annison.

"Them other two Moberlys might still be hangin' around, hopin' for a chance at me," Jess pointed out. "It wouldn't have to be connected to Barcombe; it'd be personal. If that happens, with two of 'em to deal with, I druther have a gun that's had the action honed down. Dad-gum thing," he added breathlessly, "why can't I get it to stay put?"

"If the Moberlys are around," Slim observed reasonably, "they won't draw on you if you're not armed, will they? They're in the trade too. They have their reputations to think about."

Jess paused a moment, thinking this over. "Maybe you're right," he allowed. "It's just—"

"Habit," Slim finished for him. "I know that. Maybe it's a habit you should start trying to break. Give it a shot, anyway."

Jess pondered briefly, then slowly let the gun and rig slide back onto the bed. "Okay," he said. "Reckon they got that wagon hitched up?" There was a spark of eagerness in his eye as he spoke, and Slim remembered what he and Matt French had talked about, two nights earlier—and how positively Jess had reacted, the next morning, when he was told of the planned trip to Vernal.

"Reckon so," Slim agreed. French had been right: Jess actually looked better by several degrees than he had even forty-eight hours ago. _He might even be able to take on an all-day ride, startin' tomorrow,_ the rancher thought. _That's if he's made up his mind to go home with me._ It was a subject Jess had carefully avoided ever since their long talk in the dark, the night after Slim had gone with the Blackmores to get a long-distance look at the Bar Comb.

They went out through the front door, stopping to get their winter coats out of the curtained closet in the entry. Jess still needed the cane, as Slim had noted, but he wasn't leaning on it as heavily now.

Jack was just bringing the wagon around—a high-sided farm type with a nine-foot-long box and two seats, about 900 pounds all told, and capable, when drawn by a four-up of coaching-type horses, of accomodating over a ton and a half of passengers and cargo. Today it had just two, since the Box Fifteen family had already stocked up for winter some six weeks earlier, and planned only to do its Christmas shopping—admittedly somewhat ahead of time, but as French had said, there were years when the snow blockaded them in their valleys and canyons from December through March. Close behind came Charlie and Joe, each leading three saddled horses, and Matt French on his favorite black-maned dun, with Alamo and Traveller following behind. The rest of the family came tumbling out of the house, each of the boys wearing his "range best," the "big girls" in their second-best finery with cloth winter hats and warm outer wraps, little Julia Blackmore clinging to her mother's hand in a blue dress with a yellow plaid and the kind of hat called a "flat," its low crown and wide flapping brim simply trimmed with a wreath of small flowers, and Sam Truesdell, who was still in petticoats, decked out in side-buttoned gaiters and a fur-trimmed jacket and close-fitting cap. As for Susie Hayworth, lagging reluctantly—indeed almost sullenly—in the rear, Slim and Jess hardly recognized her: instead of the boy-dress in which they had always seen her up to now, she wore a very fashionable and complicated outfit made up of a plum-colored overdress with a wide low neckline, flared sleeves so short that they were barely there at all, and a flared skirt drawn up with lace-covered gathers to form six shirred swags, a soft lacy blouse in a light lemon yellow with sleeves that belled generously above tight cuffs, and a longer underskirt of a deep rose hue, its hem edged with a row of soft-white cord and another of wider, navy braid, stitched on in scallops, about two inches higher. Her laced-up boots had a red band around their peak-fronted tops, and the long fancy strings that tied them had been wrapped several times around just under these before being bow-tied in front, their tassel-tipped ends swinging freely. Her cropped hair was topped with a saucer-sized hat balanced on the front of her head and held somewhat precariously in place with ribbons, and she wore a plum cloak with a tiny shoulder cape and a hood hanging down between her shoulders. The colors were very suitable to her, but she looked all wrong, like a clip-winged swallow in a cage. Danny, boosting himself up into the saddle of his strawberry roan Indian pony, burst out laughing as he caught sight of the outfit, at which Joe swiped at him with his pearl-gray miniature Stetson and told the younger boy to keep his opinions to himself, since nobody else wanted to hear them.

Slim took Alamo's reins from French, waiting to be sure Jess would be able to mount on his own, and watched in amusement as Jack and Charlie helped their wives up onto the rear seat, handed the children up to be perched on their laps, and began boosting Laura onto the passenger side of the front one, while Ellen looked around for the youngest girl. "Susie," she cried, "come here and let me get you straightened out! My goodness, you look like a scarecrow! Your hat's on crooked, your dress is hiked up on one side, and your stockings are twisted."

"Well, I'm all covered up, ain't I?" called back Susie, who would much rather have been in jeans and a cowboy hat, rooting cattle out of the brush with her brother Joe. "And that's what clothes are for."

Slim smiled. "Sounds like your youngest is turning out a regular tomboy," he observed quietly to the girls' foster-father.

Matt chuckled. "I got a notion any family with four girls or more ought to have at least one," he said. "Bein' she _is_ the youngest, and growin' up with more boys around her than girls, I'm not surprised she'd find men's work and ways more attractive than women's."

"I've got a neighbor with a girl like that," said Slim. "All four of his daughters could work cattle as well as men, but the youngest, Celie, she's the best of the lot at it, and not one bit apologetic either. And she can shoot, too."

"Susie and Joe understand each other," French agreed. "I don't know what they'll end up doing, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is, they'll do it together." He grinned as he watched Ellen catching and "straightening out" her protesting sister. "Now Ellen—I don't know why it is, but she just can't seem to accept Susie for the person Susie wants to be. Stuffs her into a dress every time we go to town, even though nobody would care one way or another at Susie's age, and least of all with her hair cropped off like that."

Charlie lifted Susie up onto the seat, where she resignedly settled herself in the middle, and Ellen, with Jack's help, scrambled up after her and took the reins her brother-in-law handed her. Jess had gotten comfortably situated in Traveller's saddle, his manzanita cane tucked under the straps that held his rifle boot in place. Slim mounted up, French heeled his dun forward until it was a few yards ahead of the team's noses, and the boys fell into place all around in a loose cordon. "Let's move out!" cried Matt, and Ellen snapped the reins and shouted to the horses to "get up!"

**SR**

"They're coming," said J.D.

Devon Salbridge, lounging on the porch of Vernal's only hotel, tipped his hat up and rolled one eye at him. "You're sure?"

"I can hardly miss a dozen riders and a two-seater wagon," the younger man pointed out rather sourly. "No outfit that big would be comin' from that direction, not this time of year."

Salbridge straightened up. "I reckon you'd know," he allowed. "All right, you'd better go give your uncle the news and send him back. We'll take care of the rest of it."

"I don't like this," J.D. protested, not in a tone that suggested he thought the gunfighter would care. "It seems kind of... underhanded, somehow."

"We're outnumbered," Salbridge reminded him. "If Alex and Fincher hadn't been killed, and you hadn't sent the others packin', we'd at least be seven to ten, not countin' the two youngest boys, since they're not old enough to carry. Since they've got the weight of numbers, we have to do somethin' that'll balance the odds some. It's not that much different from the trick they worked on you."

"It is," J.D. insisted. "That was still man to man, and the odds were pretty even. This..." He trailed off.

Salbridge reflected silently that it was a good thing Barcombe had waited till the two of them were alone to tell _all_ the details of his plan. The kid was definitely going soft on them. "We _could_ get along without you, if we had to," he said.

J.D. shook his head. "No, I agreed to do my part, and I won't back out now. Just..." He gestured helplessly, then said, "Never mind," and stepped off the porch to untie his smoke-roan gelding from the rack and send the animal loping down the street.

**SR**

Slim had had a part in his own family's Christmas shopping more than once, and he wasn't at all surprised at the rather complicated arrangements French and his young'uns had made regarding who would go where with whom; after all, they wouldn't want anyone to see what the others were getting for him or her. Like Laramie, and for much the same reason, Vernal began to decorate for the holiday early in November, and the stores to stock up with the "comforts" and fancy goods considered proper for gifting purposes. The Box Fifteen family had no need to do any of the usual sort of shopping, but Slim decided to make a visit to the local stagecoach office and ask for reports on the weather to the east, particularly the condition of South Pass. He was a bit dismayed to hear that the snow there had already been measured at four inches, which was about the average depth for the whole month of November, and that month wasn't half over yet. "Jonesy was right," he said. "We're in for a tough winter. It looks like we'd better plan on startin' back first thing tomorrow."

Jess only grunted, and Slim wondered again what he was planning to do. _If he really doesn't want to go back with me... how can I force him? Would it be fair to him to make him do somethin' that goes so far against his grain? Is he right about Salbridge still hangin' around, takin' a chance that he'll return?_

Aloud he said only, "Want to go over to the Valley Green and wait for Matt?"

"Yeah," said Jess. "I owe Miss Aurelia at least thanks—if she hadn't'a' sent Hardy up to Box Fifteen while I was tied up in her swamper's room, there'd been nobody to get me away from them Barcombe guns."

"I guess I owe her the same," Slim agreed, and they set off in that direction, not walking too fast, in deference to Jess's cane.

Aurelia Blaine was already on duty, in anticipation of the Saturday crowds; she recognized Jess at once. "Well, Johnny Hart—or is it Jess Harper? Hardy told me he saw you up at Matt's place Wednesday night, but I wasn't sure you'd be visiting town again."

"It's Harper," Jess admitted, "and this here is Slim Sherman—my boss, kind of."

Slim politely removed his hat. "I've been hearin' a lot about you, Miss Blaine. Jess seems to think you helped save his life, and from what I know of the situation he was in, I'd have to agree. I know he wants to thank you, and I don't mean to steal any of his thunder, but my family and I owe you some gratitude too. Jess has become... an important part of our lives the last few months."

She glanced from him to Jess. "Then I'm glad I was able to help. Your boss?" she added to Jess. "I thought you said you were heading for California."

"I was," the Texan agreed. "It's a long story. Slim's got a ranch outside Laramie, I been workin' for him since spring..."

"And somehow," she finished, "I get the impression you didn't exactly give proper notice you were quitting him."

"He never gave any notice at all," said Slim, "and as far as I'm concerned, he's still on my payroll, so I'm tryin' to get him to go back with me."

"Not to stir around in something that may not be any of my business," said the woman, in a tone that fetched a sharp look from Jess, "but it seems to me that a man ought to stay where he's wanted, instead of kiting off to parts unknown without so much as a proper goodbye."

"It ain't that easy, ma'am," Jess replied in a low voice.

She sighed. "Few things are in this life. Well, let me buy you both a drink."

"Thank you," Slim acknowledged. "Matt French is coming by to join us presently... there was somethin' he needed to tell you."

"Then we'll wait," Aurelia declared.

About half an hour later the former Ranger walked in, paused a moment to locate them, and came back to the table where they were seated, with a bottle of Colonel's Choice whiskey in the middle of it. "Aurelia," he said, removing his hat.

"Matt. Good to see you, as always." Slim realized from the warmth of her voice that even though she'd apparently been refusing the man's proposals for five years, it wasn't because she didn't think well of him. He wondered what her reason might be. She wasn't married to Barcombe any more, hadn't been for over a decade; she'd had time to grieve for her failed marriage, and was free to bestow her affections on whomever she wished. Was it simply that, after all these years on her own, she'd gotten to like the taste of independence? Maybe she just didn't want to give it up. He'd known at least a couple of comfortably situated widows who'd held a similar attitude.

French sat down at her unspoken invitation and waited while she filled a glass for him. Jess, Slim observed, didn't seem to have touched his, but then he'd noticed before now that Jess often did that. He wasn't much of a drinker himself, and had barely tasted his own, more out of good manners than anything else.

"Mr. Sherman said you wanted to tell me something," she proceeded as she passed the whiskey over to him.

"Seems like it ought to come from me," he replied, "seein' that it was a big part my doin' that it happened the way it did." He went on to explain the plan Slim had come up with and how his part of it had worked out. She listened without comment until he had finished, then put her elbows on the table and her head down in her hands for a minute or two. The men waited, giving her time to process the news.

"So John Clinton's gone," she said at length.

"Don't much see how he could'a' survived," French agreed. "I worked out an agreement with J.D.—" and he described it briefly.

"I did sort of wonder at you being in town, after the way you all sneaked in and out last month," she admitted. "But knowing that the war's over... that explains it. Do you think J.D. will keep his word?"

"He's young, but he's not stupid," said Matt. "He knows there were witnesses, and he knows that a man who gets a name for goin' back on his promises can't survive in this country. And he'll have enough to do runnin' things on his own." Pause, then: "I said to Slim that you might want to petition the Mormon court to get custody of Davy. If you did... I'd welcome him as another son, Aurelia."

"Would you?" she asked softly.

"I can't see why you'd ever have doubted it."

"I don't think I ever really did. It's just that—I didn't think I'd get the chance to know him till he was grown up. Now..." She hesitated. "It's a lot to think about. John Clinton was the only father he ever knew, and I doubt he knows I'm alive. I wonder if I have the right to turn his world upside down again so soon."

Slim noticed peripherally that at some point during their foster-father's story, Harry, Phil, and Charlie had drifted in and ordered beers at the bar, where they were standing in a group, talking too quietly to be overheard. "You could wait a little while," French suggested. "Give yourself time to settle in up at our place. Or—well, court doin's always take time anyhow..."

She drew a breath. "I'm not sure..."

Just then one of the batwing doors was tentatively pushed aside to reveal a small boy—not Hardy Medbury, but only a year or so younger—who looked around the room and quickly crossed to their table. "Mr. French?" he inquired. "A feller give me a dollar to fetch you this—" He held out an envelope.

The rancher frowned briefly in puzzlement. "Wonder why he didn't come find me himself," he murmured, accepting the missive and slitting the flap with his thumb. "Now this isn't just a note...what—?" He turned it upside down and shook it. Out fell a cameo brooch on a thin gold chain, a string of red glass beads, and a miniature buckle of highly polished brass.

French went white, then hastily pulled a folded piece of paper out of the envelope and read it. Silently he passed it to Jess, who glanced briefly at it and handed it on to Slim.

_French:  
I've got three of your kids. If Harper doesn't meet me in the street inside fifteen minutes after you get this, and you after I get done with him, you won't see them again.  
D. Salbridge_

"Is it a bluff?" Slim demanded. Jess had caught Charlie's eye and beckoned the threesome over to join them; he quietly took the note from Slim's hand and let them see it.

"No," said Matt, his voice thin. "The buckle's off Joe's best hatband. The beads are Susie's, and the locket belonged to Ellen's ma—she wears it every day, no matter what else she's got on; all the girls have things like that, things brought from back East that have meaning to 'em."

"I thought I recognized it," Slim admitted. "She had it on the day I first came to your place."

"Fifteen minutes," growled Harry, who was married to the hostages' oldest sister. "Don't give us much time to find 'em."

"Don't give us any at all," said Charlie. "We could tear Vernal apart, but it'd still take more than he's give us."

Jess scraped his chair back. "Then it's up to me."

Slim took a breath, but before he could say anything someone shouted from outside: _"Harper!_ I know you're in there, and I know you got my message. Are you comin' out, or do I have to come in after you?"

The young Texan pushed to his feet, using his manzanita cane to keep some of his weight off the injured leg. He limped quickly across the room to the doors with Slim right behind him and French and his three boys in hot pursuit.

The man waiting a little the near side of the middle of the street, about twenty feet from the Valley Green's front steps, was much as Jonesy had described him to Slim, more than three weeks ago: late twenties, average size, angular build, prominent features, brown-black hair and hazel eyes. He had a scar just under the left edge of his jaw, and wore a dark blue shirt under a fleece-lined buckskin jacket with beadwork on the yoke, yellow leather gloves, black-and-brown-striped woollen pants reinforced with buckskin where the wear came inside the legs, and a chocolate-brown hat with the tip of a hawk wing tucked into the band. His bone-handled sixgun had a sort of high-shouldered look, because there was no indentation or drop between the heel of the cylinder and the curve of the join—a Smith &amp; Wesson; the holster was decorated with Mexican silver in a pattern of small sunbursts. Whether it had a steerhead on it Slim was too far off to make out, but he didn't doubt that it did.

Jess walked to the top of the steps and paused, resting his weight on his cane. "Salbridge," he said meagerly.

The other's eyebrows went up. "I wasn't sure you'd know me."

"Had you described to me, more'n once. Most recent after you paid a visit to some friends of mine, back Laramie way," said Jess, a growly edge in his voice. "You didn't have no call to scare the boy that way."

"Never meant to," said Salbridge.

"That don't cut it and you know it," Jess shot back. "Why'd you ask for me and French both? I ain't drawin' his pay."

"No," Salbridge agreed, "I know you're not. But _I'm_ drawin' pay from somebody with reason to see you dead, or so he thinks, anyhow. And I was drawin' Barcombe's on the side, too, these last couple of weeks. Figure I might as well finish things for him while I'm about it."

"Hamry," guessed Jess flatly.

"Hamry's dad," the other corrected him. "He didn't believe those depositions."

"But you know better."

"Sure," said Salbridge. "Mort Corey's got a good name. I never thought he'd twist the truth around, least of all for your sake, though I did hear you and he get along a lot better than I'd have figured on, considerin' your reputation. But Old Man Hamry didn't need to know that."

"You on his payroll permanent?" Jess asked.

Nod. "Have been these three years."

"Then you'd get paid whether you took me or no."

"That's true," Salbridge admitted. "But you see, there's somethin' else between us. Remember some trouble you got into down in Denton County, couple of years back?"

Even from his angle, to Jess's left and not quite alongside him, Slim could see the memories chasing themselves across the Texan's face. "That'd be the Monarch Freight dispute."

"That's right. A man tricked you into an alley and you took a beatin'. Later you called him and killed him."

"Brad Jervis," Jess breathed.

Salbridge nodded again. "That was his name."

"Jervis got his chance," Jess said levelly. "It was a fair fight."

"I don't say it wasn't," said Salbridge. "But he saved my life once, Harper, and I never got the chance to pay him back, because you killed him before I could. The only way I can settle that score is with _your_ life. Anyway, this isn't about him. It's about you." His shoulders lifted a bit. "Now, do you want to talk all day, or get on with it? Because those three kids are gonna get pretty thirsty if I don't go and get 'em."

Slim saw Jess draw a breath as if to reply, and he took one long stride forward, coming to a halt directly to his ranchhand's left. "You'll have to go through me first, Salbridge," he said evenly.

Jess's head snapped around. Salbridge frowned briefly. "I got no fight with you, whoever you are," he said.

"That's your opinion," said Slim. "It's not mine. And the name's Sherman, Slim Sherman."

"From Wyoming?"

"That's just right," Slim agreed. "Jess works for me. The way I was raised, that makes him my responsibility, and his fights mine."

"No," Jess protested. "Slim, don't do this."

"Jess, you're not armed, which is partly my fault, and you can't even stay on your feet without that cane," Slim told him, not taking his eyes off Salbridge. "I'm not gonna stand by and let you sacrifice yourself out of some misplaced combination of guilt and obligation. You did what you had to do. I'm doin' what I have to do." Quietly, then: "When you were feverish you asked me to help you. You haven't retracted that. And in any case, he wouldn't be here if he hadn't somehow followed me. I brought him down on you, so it's my responsibility to take him out of play."

"Slim..."

"_No,"_ the rancher interrupted firmly, and tossed back over his shoulder, "Harry, Charlie, take him back by the doors."

Jess tried to shake them off, but couldn't resist a hand on either shoulder, not with the cane filling his right hand. He let them pull him away from Slim's side, not taking his eyes from the older man, who was slowly descending the steps. "This is pretty close range for your kind of fightin', isn't it?" he asked Salbridge.

"It is at that," the gunfighter agreed. "But then, I needed to be close enough to Harper to be sure he'd hear me."

"He heard you," said Slim mildly. "You want to back up, or shall I?"

Salbridge eyed the twenty-foot distance that separated them. "Let's both do it. Any time after twenty yards, you feel lucky, you just make your play."

"That's fine." Slim moved slowly out into the center of the street, angling away from Salbridge, keeping his right side toward the gunfighter, who in turn pivoted easily to face him. Already most of the Saturday shoppers had found shelter inside whatever building was nearest; windows were crowded with curious faces, since no one had been close enough to hear the exchange between Jess and Salbridge, and a few cautiously bold types peered gingerly around doorframes, ready to duck back if the lead started to fly. Jess watched wide-eyed, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. He had stood with trail-partners in gunfights before: Dixie and Hal in the early '60's, when he was just learning the trade; various men hired by the same people as himself after the war, like when he'd been with the King Bartlett outfit in Texas. But that had been in the nature of mutual survival; except with Dixie, and maybe a little with Hal, there'd been nothing personal to it. He remembered thinking, on his second trip into Laramie months ago, of how it might be if Slim would be willing to let him stay on: _Maybe could use somebody to have his back, and Andy's. Maybe would have that man's back in turn._

It hadn't occurred to him to imagine that Slim would be the first to make the offer.

It should have. Slim had been first to offer personal confidences, after all, and when he hardly knew more of Jess but his name and the fact that he was good in a fight. That was why Jess in turn had felt... almost safe... in talking of his—profession—and even a little of his family, of Johnny and, later, Francie, though not yet of the others and how they'd died.

Never with anyone—except Dixie, to whom he'd felt an obligation for sparing his life that fateful day in Lampasas, and a little with Melly Pennybuck, who was after all just a thirteen-year-old girl at the time, and Wolf Sleeping, the Blackfoot chief who'd offered him a place in his band—had he felt safe enough to speak so extensively of private things.

Family things.

And suddenly, in that instant, he understood what he had found. The realization staggered him. Ever since the night he woke up and saw Slim sitting by his bed—and what meant more, in the state he'd been in at the time, felt the big man's hand gripping his own, so surely real, not some fever dream—he'd known, on some level, that to Slim he wasn't just a hired hand. A man just didn't ride five hundred miles to—to do what? To pay a couple of weeks' wages? To offer his support in a difficult time? No, there was more here than merely that—and now Jess knew what it was. Sure, Slim had followed him farther a couple of times before—to Canada, to Tumavaca—but those had been in the nature of protection, of being there to back him up against Gil, against DeWalt's bounty hunters. This time... how could he have figured that Salbridge would be able to trace Jess this far? He'd have expected the man would find his way to the ranch, maybe even a few days beyond it, but to have made it all the way to here, to have somehow picked up Slim's own trail, guessed that he was going in search of Jess, and stuck with him—that had been the longest of long chances. Slim had come after Jess, this time, because he wanted to persuade him to come back—to come home, as he'd put it. No one had ever done as much for Jess before. He was amazed at what it implied. He had found someone who had not only offered him a place in his home, a seat at his table, a bed under his roof, but a spot in his heart. A man to whom his own heart had responded without his even fully realizing what was happening. A man he admired and trusted, respected and liked—

—no, make that _loved—_

—as he couldn't recall ever doing anyone in these last ten years—not even Dixie, to whom he still owed so much. A man he wished could have been his brother.

A man who was willing to risk his own life for him, as a brother would.

And a boy who looked up to him as a hero. And an old man who chaffered at him and fretted over him as he did over the sons of his long-dead friend... who had even called him "son" too.

A family.

Dared he hope—a _home,_ as Slim had said.

The memory-pictures rushed through his mind. The moment he'd shoved Andy out of the line of fire in the stage office, calling him by Johnny's name. The afternoon he'd brought Miss Essie Bright's piano back to Sherman Ranch, how the boy had launched himself from the front door and how Jess, without even thinking, had turned and opened his arms wide to receive him; the feel of Andy's embrace, the dark head so like Johnny's nestled against his breastbone. Evenings sitting on the porch with Slim, slowly and shyly revealing something of his own painful past, and later other evenings as they began cautiously exploring their experiences in the war, their travels, their attitudes about work and honor, law and order and newsworthy events—even, sometimes, joking a little, tentatively. Jonesy and Slim and even Andy sitting with him when he was hurt. Andy teaching him to swim. Lazy Sunday afternoons fishing with the boy and his brother at the lake. Days out on the range, stringing wire or rounding up stock, finding his rhythm with the rancher, discovering how well they worked together. The first town dance he'd gone to, Slim introducing him around, obviously trying to make him comfortable in this strange new place, among respectable folk, as if feeling he might actually be worthy to have a place in their society even if he did spring from a tribe held pretty worthless in Texas. Fourth of July and Slim urging him to enter Traveller in the cowpony race, cheering him on even though he'd only come in third. Slim understanding and forgiving him when Jess all but forced Andy to lie to Roney. Slim following him all the way up to the Canada line when Gil Brady showed up—and to Tumavaca when Laurel DeWalt somehow persuaded him to run away with her. Slim so clearly worried for him the day Ed Caulder came to town, until Jess told him that it wasn't him Caulder was there for—and insisting, then, that Jess take some time off, get away, make a chance to ease his mind after the possibility of a showdown. Slim standing with him when Mac was threatened... and, when they couldn't save him, giving Jess's old friend space in his own family's graveyard. From all these things he knew Slim cared about him, would stand up for him, had faith in him, believed he could shed his violent past, believed he was fundamentally a decent and honorable man. And he knew that Sherman Ranch was the place he belonged, now and for all his life; and if ever anything happened to take it away from them, the people who lived there were the ones he belonged with and to, the ones he would stand by and help to make a new life.

If he didn't believe all that—didn't _know_ all that—why had he let Slim talk him into staying on when the cold weather began to loom, instead of heading south as he always had before at such times? Why had he invested his money in a Wyoming winter kit? Why had he offered to put away his customized Colt and wear only a workmanlike model that he hadn't troubled to alter? Why, after his confrontation with Caulder, had he spoken of the chimneystack cranny as "where his gun belonged"? Why had he told Jonesy that he'd "really wanted to leave all that behind"? Why had it hurt him so when he'd killed Warren Hamry in the yard, when he'd decided that to keep them all safe he had no option but to go away and leave them?

He had asked himself why Slim had dealt himself in on Box Fifteen's trouble. He knew why, now. For the same reason Jess would have done the same thing for Johnny, if Johnny had lived and gotten himself in a similar situation.

Because it was the only thing Slim could do. Because he had to.

Just as Jess himself had felt that, in order to protect Slim and his family, he had to leave them.

For too many years, ever since the fire, the idea of "family" had been associated, in his mind, only with loss and grief. So he had tried, in self-defense, to convince himself that he didn't want or need one any more, that it wasn't worth the pain you got when you lost them. The fact that he had had friends and trail-partners over the years and repeatedly lost them—to death, to outside pressures, to the simple progression of events as they drifted apart—had only served to confirm his belief that he was destined to live a short, lonely, unhappy life, with nothing but his hunger for revenge to sustain him. He had done his best to bury all need and warmth, trust and caring, deep inside him, and to build such walls around them that he'd never be troubled by them again. But he knew, now, that to deny these things was to deny who he was—the man who had fought so often on the weaker side, sometimes foregone payment because he had to serve what he saw as justice; the man who, time and again, had dropped out of the gunfighting trade and tried to do something else, only to drift back into his old ways because he had nothing else to live for. He realized that he'd only been fooling himself—and not way down where it mattered, either, because something deep in the heart of him had just been waiting till he could find a new home. Everything had changed for him on the first day he rode into Sherman Ranch and met Andy and Jonesy—but especially Andy—and found himself fighting first with and then beside Slim, as he might have done had he been old enough to ride with his big brothers when they left. He understood, suddenly, what Slim had been trying to tell him, the morning he came to himself in French's sickroom. He understood, at last, that his heart had known all along what he needed, and known it when he found it.

The concept, the possibility, dazzled him. It was, he thought, what Miss Essie might have called a revelation. It was almost more than he could accept. And yet he must accept it. He couldn't deny the evidence that was right there in front of him. This wasn't a question of misinterpretation or wishful thinking. This was real. Real, and worth fighting for. Worth every last drop of his blood, if that was what was called for.

He had always "ridden for the brand," as the range code required, but this was different.

And he couldn't lose it.

Wouldn't lose it.

Wouldn't let that happen, not twice in one lifetime.

_Brother._ Wolf Sleeping had dreamed that he'd have a brother—a tall white man with light hair, whose smile was "like sun coming from behind clouds." Seeing Slim, Jess had known, on some level, that this was the man in that dream, which was why he'd accepted the offer of a job; yet at the same time he'd tried, these six months, to deny it, unwilling to believe that a dream could tell the future, since his own had always been far too painfully focused on the past.

_Brother. _ He'd lost three of those already—maybe five, for all he knew; Ben and Jake, he hadn't heard from them since before the fire...

And that was enough, and more than enough, and it wasn't going to happen again.

Not even if he had to die to prevent it. Because he knew, now, that if he couldn't have this newfound home, if he stood by and let Slim die for his sake, the world wouldn't be worth living in.

It all took barely more than two long breaths for him to review and understand. A sweet, soothing coolness seemed to sweep suddenly through him; for the first time in far too long, he felt utterly calm, at peace. No more doubt, no more uncertainty, no more fighting what was meant to be.

He would go back, but first there was something he had to do.

"Harry," he said quietly, "let me borrow your sidearm."

The younger Blackmore brother stared at him. "Jess, Slim's right. You can't get into this. You let go that cane, you'll fall flat on your face."

"Ain't fixin' to let go of it," Jess growled. "That's why I asked you and not your brothers. You're left-handed. Maybe you ain't had that grip customized, but you've likely wore it down some over the years. It'll fit my hand best of any of yours."

"You're gonna fight left-handed?" Phil guessed. "Jess—"

"Don't say it," Jess warned. "You ain't a professional. I am. I was taught to shoot both ways. Been a spell since I had to use my left, but I ain't forgot how it's done. Let me have your gun, Harry. Just slip it into my waistband with the butt turned left."

"No such a thing," Harry retorted, reaching down. "You use my gun, you'll use it proper, with a belt and a holster."

"Ain't got time for that," said Jess, and he pivoted on the tip of the cane, reached out with his left hand, and snaked the Remington out of its sheath, tucking it through the front of his belt as he hobbled quickly toward the steps.

Slim caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and knew it wasn't a threat, not from that direction, but he didn't dare turn his head, not knowing if Salbridge would take advantage of the momentary distraction. Salbridge, however, had paused and was looking that way himself. Slim hesitated an instant, confused, and then Jess fell in beside him, on his left. He glanced that way, just long enough to see the sixgun in the Texan's belt, butt turned left. "Jess, I told you—"

"I heard what you told me." There was no anger in Jess's voice, but a deep emotion that the rancher couldn't define; part sadness, part resignation, part pride, part heartfelt warmth and appreciation, but mostly something he didn't understand, didn't have words for. "Slim, you can't do this. You ain't nowheres near his level. You got a ranch and a kid brother, you can't just throw yourself away. And like he says, it ain't you he's here for. I ain't askin' you to walk away, I know I got no right to do that. Just let me be here with you. You wouldn't be here, you wouldn't be havin' to put your life on the line, if you hadn't—if I hadn't—I started all this mess, I need to help finish it."

Slim took a slow, deep breath. "Are you sure?"

"Never surer of anythin' in my life. This is where I have to be just now. Now, I'm gonna step off to the side, six, seven yards. He won't have no chance of takin' us both down quick; he'll have to choose. He knows I'm a lot bigger danger to him than you are, so I'm bettin' he'll go for me first. That'll give you an openin'."

"Two against one, Harper?" came Salbridge's voice; no edge in it, just a note of surprise and curiosity. "I hadn't expected that."

"Seein' as one of us ain't a professional," Jess retorted easily, "and th'other one ain't usin' his best hand, seems like the odds're still pretty even." He had reached the distance he'd specified; he settled himself, supporting his weight on his cane, mentally checking himself out—balance, general condition, degree of discomfort from the wound—and integrating his self-picture with the larger environment around him, wind, cast of light, and so on. A hush settled over the street, over the entire town.

Jess could make out the shifting glitter of Salbridge's eyes as he glanced from one opponent to the other, calculating the variables, trying to decide which was the greater danger. Then he drew.

And, as Jess had guessed he would, he figured that his own professional counterpart, even with a balance issue and not using his dominant hand, was the bigger threat. Which, of course, Jess was.

Telling of it much later, Jess was to admit that he was never quite sure which of them actually got his iron in action first. The Remington was unfamiliar, in its balance, its angle, the feel of the buttplates in the Texan's palm, yet the two shots sounded as one. But Salbridge hadn't quite allowed for the slight rightward cant of Jess's body, and his bullet barely nicked his foe's upper left arm. A split-instant later Slim's Colt sounded. Jess, as his training bade him, brought up his borrowed gun for another shot, even though his brain had already registered the two puffs of dust rising from Salbridge's jacket as both rounds hit him. The man lurched and swayed, then stumbled a step back as Jess's second shot found its mark. The last missed entirely as he toppled face-up and hit the ground hard. A sharp multiple click sounded as Slim cocked his gun for another shot, then hesitated, seeing that Salbridge was down. They both stood very still for an endless fifteen seconds. Salbridge didn't move.

Something moved in the corner of Slim's eye, on his right—not the side from which Jess had come. He shifted to cover it, then lifted his sights as he saw the gleam of metal on the newcomer's vest. The Mormon deputy, he guessed. He was a young man, not yet thirty, but he wore his gun at just the right height and angle and moved as if he knew how to use it, which Slim didn't find surprising: he'd heard that all Western Mormons, young and old, had the reputation for excelling at riding, dancing, and shooting. "What happened here?" he demanded as he came.

Slim took a breath to try to explain, and two things happened at once. From the Valley Green's porch came Matt French's voice, a wild warning shout: _"Look out, boys!" _And there was a dull deep roar from somewhere on the right. Slim reflexively threw himself flat, and the deputy careened forward as if struck by an invisible fist.

Guns crackled from the saloon, and Slim rolled and scrambled up, hurling himself in that direction, catching Jess by the arm on the way and hurrying him across the open space and up the steps into the shade of the gallery, where they'd be harder to hit. "What—?" he began.

French was down on one knee just within the awning's shade, Walker angled upward toward something on the far side of the street and slightly to the westward end of it; Phil stood behind him with both his Starrs drawn, and Charlie back by the door, his Model 1848 Colt .44 also ready for action. "Somebody up on the roof of the hotel with a buffalo gun," the ex-Ranger explained. "He'd have got one of you sure, except he had to stick his barrel over the parapet for a clear shot, and when I saw it and hollered he must'a' jerked and thrown his aim off."

Slim looked back. A dark pool of blood could be seen spreading beneath the deputy's motionless body. The rancher had seen the damage a Sharps could do, and he figured the big round must have gone straight through, back to front. "Get back inside," he said. "I don't think he can hit any of us at this angle, but he might try shootin' through the awning." Suiting the action to the words, he half helped and half dragged Jess back over the threshold into the safety of the barroom. French and his boys followed. Harry, who wasn't much use without the Remington Jess had borrowed, was standing by one of the broad front windows, peering out above the white-painted privacy panes, trying to get a sight of the ambusher.

"You boys okay?" Matt demanded, and then, "No, you're not, or at least Jess ain't. Aurelia, we need a napkin or somethin' over here." Slim was forcing Jess into a chair, ignoring his protests that it was just a bullet-burn, a flesh wound.

"We'd ought to've expected it," growled Charlie. "Salbridge claimed he had Ellen and Joe and Susie. Even if he was able to pick 'em off one at a time when they were alone, he'd have needed to get 'em to whatever safe place he's got 'em tucked away in, and likely left somebody to guard 'em besides. That means he wasn't workin' alone. Looks like he figured it that if he couldn't take you and Jess both, his partner up yonder would."

"Might be the Moberlys, though a buffalo gun don't rightly seem their style," said Jess. He winced as Slim pulled the bloody sleeve away from his arm and slashed the fabric with his pocketknife, then gave way to Ned and Aurelia with a basin, a bar-rag, and a bottle of standard-grade whiskey.

"He's got us bottled up," Phil observed; he'd taken up a post at the other window. "One of us tries to cross that street, he'll be a sittin' duck for twenty good yards. And them things can kill a man at a thousand."

"We could try to give him three or four targets to pick from," Slim suggested. "Any of us ought to be able toget over in two or three seconds, and maybe he'd be too surprised to decide which one to fire at."

Charlie snorted. "Easy to tell you ain't a married man. A feller who knows what he's doin' with a buffalo gun can get off a shot every twenty seconds, and that's countin' time to reload, which he's done by now."

Jess gasped as the raw whiskey was generously dabbed on his wound. "He's right, Slim. And you might not be a married man, but you got Andy and Jonesy to think of."

Slim joined Phil at his sentry post, scanning the streetscape—deserted except for Salbridge's and the deputy's bodies—and estimating angles, distances, windages, trying to visualize the size and shape of the Valley Green itself. "This building's two storeys," he pointed out after a minute or two. "Not quite as tall as the hotel, maybe twenty-five feet against thirty, but wider; hotel's not more than seventy-five feet side to side, and this one's a hundred. They're also not exactly across from each other—the hotel's downstreet, west of us. If we slipped out the back, some of us, we could circle wide, cross the street at either end—that's a couple of hundred yards, out of good side vision, and if the rest get back out on the gallery and keep him busy, he might not think to look up."

French listened, thought for a moment, then nodded. "It might work. Probably the best chance we've got—if we don't pry him off that roof before it starts to get dark, he'll get away, and since we don't know who he is, we can't figure which of us he's likely to come stalkin' after once he has the light again."

"I'll go," said Slim. "Phil, Charlie, you come with me. Harry, stay with your pa."

Jess marked how easily and naturally the big man assumed command. "Phil, give me one of them Starrs of yours."

"_You're _not goin'!" Slim snapped.

"Didn't aim to. But I can still stay here and snipe at him, and Harry'll want his Remington back. Ain't my shootin' arm that's hurt."

Slim looked at him a moment. "All right. But stay under that awning, you hear me? No grandstand plays."

"I hear," Jess agreed, wincing again as Aurelia wrapped a length of clean white petticoat around his arm to contain the bleeding. "But you take care, hardcase."

"Same back at you," Slim responded shortly. It was an idiom used in Texas and the Nations; Jess wondered briefly where he'd picked it up.

"Ned, go with them and unbolt the back," Aurelia ordered.

The bartender and the three young men vanished through the door to the right-hand side of the bar. French, Harry, and Jess moved out onto the boardwalk, kneeling just within the awning's shade. "There," said the ex-Ranger. "There's the barrel, see it? Looks like he's forted up right behind the crest of the false front."

"Smart," Jess growled. "He can stand up if he wants to, and not expose more'n maybe one shoulder and half his face." He knew that any of their handguns had an effective range of between twenty-five and fifty yards—more than the distance they needed to cover in order to score—and Matt could reach a hundred; but on an upward angle their shots were likely to go low and hit the parapet.

"Don't matter if we hit him," said Matt. "We just need to make him think there's twice as many of us as there is. Keep him from lookin' side to side. Any man'll duck by reflex when he hears a shot, and most can't help but fire back at least now and again. All right, boys, let's make some music."

**SR**

As a general rule, the sound of a shot will carry at least three to four miles except against the wind, and the colder or thinner the air the farther it can be heard. At two miles' distance from Vernal's business district, the abandoned cabin where Barcombe had spent the last thirty or so hours was well within that. What was more, the deep-muted boom of a buffalo gun, deliberately designed not to spook the herds, was very different from either the sharper crack of most common saddleguns or the pound of a .44 or .45 revolver, while the lighter sound of a Navy-caliber pistol was even more distinctive. J.D. Annison, keeping watch over the three hostages, clearly heard the exchange of gunfire that ended with Salbridge's death, although of course he had no idea who had won. He was fairly sure that three different guns had been involved, which suggested that Salbridge had contrived to get both Harper and French to face him. But the unexpected roar of the Sharps disconcerted him severely. He knew it for what it was, of course: nothing else made quite that sound. But who would have a buffalo gun? Certainly not Harper or his friend Sherman. The Box Fifteen was almost equally unlikely to carry such a weapon. Salbridge, as a professional, would scorn it. Which left...

Quite suddenly J.D. realized he'd been used. His uncle hadn't had the first intention of settling this in a fair fight. And there was a Sharps Big Fifty in the rack in the Bar Comb office—

J.D. had done some dubious things in his young life, but one thing in which he had always taken pride was that he fought fairly. He listened for two or three minutes, until he was sure that the duel hadn't ended, and then stepped back into the cabin. The three youngest Hayworths, sitting against the back wall, looked up at him, Joe and Susie defiant, Ellen grim and angry. She took a breath as if to say something, then gasped in surprise as he dropped down beside her to cut her bonds. "What—?" she demanded in confusion.

"Uncle John's just voided the deal I made with him," J.D. explained briefly. "I could accept bein' here, keepin' watch over you, knowin' somebody else would be swappin' lead with your family. But I figured it would be even odds, or tipped in their favor, not his. That Sharps he's usin' changes everything." He began freeing Joe.

"What are you going to do?" Ellen asked. "You've only got one horse, we can't all ride it—"

"No," J.D. agreed, "but now that you're free, you can walk back to town yourselves; it's not far..."

**SR**

"We'll try to come at him from two sides," Slim decided as he and the two younger men paused just outside the Valley Green's back door. "You two take the east, I'll circle west. Stick close to the backs of the buildings. You shouldn't be in any real danger except when you have to cross the nearest alley. If you don't let him get a sight of you then, the angle will be in your favor, and he won't know what we're up to till it's too late."

Charlie Truesdell nodded. "Sounds good. Watch yourself, Slim. Come on, Phil, let's go."

Slim watched for a few seconds until they got across the alley on the east side of the saloon, then set off himself, moving in long, quick, light steps, as his Cheyenne friends had taught him, back before the war. He could hear the measured reports of the handguns on the gallery, and guessed that Matt French was trying to make his little company sound bigger than it was—which was very good thinking. At intervals the Sharps thundered, but Slim heard no cries of pain. The shooter was just trying to keep Matt's group pinned, and doing a good job of it. Possibly he hadn't gotten into position in time to know how many of them there had been in the saloon when Salbridge sent his message in.

Being alone, and having longer legs than either of the Truesdells, Slim could move faster. After a couple of hundred yards the closely-ranked buildings of the business district began giving way to shacks and sheds and cabins, a laundress's establishment, a grain storehouse. Slim dropped down into a shallow arroyo and squirmed rapidly along the bottom of it, under the unrailed bridge that spanned it, and kept on till he was about halfway along the depth of the outermost structure on the other side, then eeled up out of it and began moving back the way he'd come. He circled a big warehouse and angled inward until he could start hugging the rear walls of the business buildings on the south side of the street. The shooter, he reflected, had an excellent position there, and not only because of height. As long as he could keep from skylining himself, the sun was on his side, literally: he wasn't trying to shoot into it.

Two doors down from the hotel, Slim paused to get his breath and replace the single spent round out of his Colt. He eyed the building thoughtfully, trying to remember from his single overnight there, almost two weeks ago, whether there might be a way to get onto the roof from inside. He recalled that there was a skylight just about midway along the corridor that ran the width of the building, half a dozen rooms giving off it on either side. Like most skylights, it was designed not only to provide light, but to serve as a sort of chimney, venting hot air from the building during the warm weather—which meant that at least some of its panels had to be operable. The question was whether they'd be wide enough for him to get through.

Well, it was that or look for a ladder. Slim moved quickly up to the rear door, testing the knob cautiously with his left hand. It wasn't locked; probably wouldn't be till sundown or after. He opened it just far enough to slide through, and found himself in a tiny barren vestibule, with the kitchen wall on one side, broken by a service door, and a bead-curtained archway to the lobby directly ahead of him. Climbing steeply from an alcove opposite the kitchen was the narrow boxed-in stairway used chiefly by the maids. It wasn't carpeted, but Slim didn't figure that the sound of his footsteps would carry through the roof, especially to a shooter periodically deafened by the noise of his own gun. He started up.

As he stepped out into the upstairs hallway, he heard the Sharps roar from somewhere overhead, followed by a silence as its owner got rid of the used shell and replaced it, then waited for what he thought might be a good shot. Knowing that the shooter had to be at the front of the roof, Slim put his back against the walls of the streetside rooms and began moving quickly crabwise toward the patch of sun that marked the skylight. Pausing just outside it, he peered up at the lightwell in which the structure was set. He'd guessed right. The sloped and ridged upper surface of the skylight, whose panes were fixed, was raised above the surface of the roof on side panes that were hinged to open and shut and a base of the same height that prevented rainwater from leaking in. From each pane a sturdy length of rope ran down through a staple, which it circled, to a hitch taken around a double-ended prong, such as you might see on a flagpole. When the hitch was loosened and the tension released, the pane it was attached to would swing upward, shedding rain but allowing free circulation of air; in cold weather it could be loosened again and the pane pulled shut, which all of them currently were, preventing the colder, heavier outside air from sinking into the building.

Slim holstered his Colt to free both hands, released the rope that controlled the frontward-facing pane, and let it out slowly until the pane stopped moving. He retied the rope, squatted as deeply as he could, and pushed off with all the force of a horseman's powerful leg and thigh muscles. His hand caught the staple for the pane and he hung on grimly by it, hauling himself up by sheer grit and the strength of his shoulders, hooking an elbow over the frame of the pane and swinging a leg up, getting his knee onto the edge and lifting his foot to slide his bootheel across.

**SR**

It hadn't taken J.D. long to figure out where his uncle had to be. The hotel was centrally located and the tallest building in town; it also had an elaborately stepped false front that would make good cover for a standing man. He reached the rear of the building only seconds after Slim had gone in, dismounted and dropped his roan's reins. There was no ladder here; if the roof needed repair or the gutters cleaning, the man who did the job would bring his own, a measure which it was hoped would make it more difficult for thieves to break in.

All the same, there still had to be downspouts at each corner. J.D. found one, scrambled up onto the barrel set underneath it, balanced carefully on the rim until he could get his hands on the pipe, and began shinnying up it.

**SR**

The pane was about eighteen inches top to bottom, the base on which it was set the same. In his winter coat Slim was just about able to squeeze through—was in fact grateful for the coat, since the edge of the frame might easily have taken some skin off, right through his shirt, if he hadn't been wearing it. He rolled as he went, and found himself on his back, his right side turned toward the parapet and false front. Grasping the edge of the frame with his left hand, he quietly drew himself to his feet, his eyes on the man who stood directly behind the crest of the false front, the heavy barrel of the Sharps resting in the angle between two steps. The fellow had removed his hat; it lay beside him on the roof, a good dove-gray Stetson with a stamped-leather band. He wore a leather coat, probably sheep-lined. Slim could see the curve of his cheek, the carefully clipped and groomed charcoal-brown beard. He stepped sideways as the Sharps boomed again, its noise covering the faint chime of his spurs, and took up a position alongside the skylight, where he could drop and squirm around behind it if he had to. Then he drew his Colt, levelled it, and pulled the hammer back, squeezing the trigger as he did to prevent a telltale click. "All right, Mister," he said levelly. "Put your rifle butt against the roof and turn around easy."

He saw the other's shoulders jerk in surprise; then the man slowly did as he'd been told. Slim had, of course, never seen John Clinton Barcombe at a distance that would have given him a good look at the man's face. He _had _seen both Alex and Dennis Moberly—one dead, the other not—and guessed this couldn't be the remaining brother, since he looked nothing like either one of them. He frowned, noting the good trousers of heavy woollen cloth tucked into the fine morocco-leather boots with their large-rowelled, many-pronged silver spurs hung with little bells: Western boots, Western spurs, but not Western pants. The front of the leather coat was unfastened to allow for easier movement by the wearer, and under it Slim could just make out a sixgun holstered high in front of the left hip, the butt angled sharply to the right for a cross-belly draw. Who was this, and why had he been shooting at them?

"Reach down with your left hand and undo your gunbelt," he ordered. "Pull it out from under your coat and toss it as far to my left as you can manage."

Without a word, but with a squinted glare of bitter hatred, the shooter moved to obey. And behind his back Slim heard a scrape, a scramble, the ring of a spur hitting a hard surface, and a voice gasping out: "Uncle John!"

Slim reacted by sheer reflex, and just in time, as the unknown swung his left hand back, tossing the skirt of his coat aside, right stabbing down to the gun butt even as the rancher dropped and rolled. The shot whined past his ear and he kept moving, then came to a halt on his back, both arms flung out to full length, hands grasping the Colt to steady it, and fired. The slug jolted his foe backward, slamming him into the tall crest of the false front; he hung there a moment, then slid slowly down to the angle where it met the rooftop. His eyes stayed open, glaring venom at Slim, and then the light went out of them and he fell forward, rolled, and came to rest face-up. His chest shuddered once, twice, and was still.

Remembering the other unknown behind him, Slim rolled again, curling in a turn and drawing his legs up to scramble to his feet. The other was standing at the back corner of the roof, which sloped down away from the street as most flat roofs did, and unlike the shooter, he was someone Slim recognized: J.D. Annison. "You can put it up," he said, in a quiet, rather dull voice. "He's dead for real now. It's finished."

_Dead 'for real'? _Slim thought. _Then he has to be..._ He remembered the youngster's shout—_Uncle John!_ "Barcombe?"

"You might not believe this," said Annison, "but I didn't realize how far he was willing to go to tilt the balance his way, not till I heard that Sharps."

Slim considered this a moment. "I think I do believe it," he replied. "I think you meant to distract him—the trouble was you distracted me as well, and that gave him what he thought was an opening." He glanced back briefly. "I'm sorry. Nobody should ever have to see kin killed."

Annison sighed. "I'd have quit acknowledgin' him as kin if he'd shot you," he said. "Did he hurt anybody?"

"Killed the deputy," said Slim. "Jess has a flesh wound on his left arm, but that was Salbridge."

The youngster looked relieved. "My horse is down below. Let me get my rope and toss it up here, and maybe you'd help me get him down."

Just then a voice sounded from ground level: "Slim! Hey, Slim! Everything okay up there?"

The rancher moved toward the rear edge of the roof and looked down into the hotel's barren back yard. Phil and Charlie were standing about ten feet from the building, guns in hand; they relaxed as they recognized him. "It's all right," he said. "It was Barcombe. J.D.'s up here, but he didn't have anything to do with it. That's probably his horse over there—one of you get the rope off the saddle and toss it up to me, we've got to get the body down."

"Barcombe?" Charlie echoed in blank astonishment.

Slim glanced at the dead man's nephew. "There's probably a story to it, but it can wait."

**SR**

Jess turned as he heard his name spoken. The waxing moon gave a good light and he had no difficulty in recognizing Slim's straight, square-shouldered shape and the curled brim of his hat. "Hey, hardcase."

"Hey yourself." Slim walked up to join him and lean on the rails of the Box Fifteen horse corral. "Heard you go out. What are you doin' up? Don't you know how late it is?"

Jess tipped his head up to check the stars. "I make it... about twenty till one."

"Twenty-two, by the kitchen clock," Slim corrected him. "You didn't answer my questions."

The Texan sighed gently and turned back to face into the corral, reaching out to rub the curious muzzle of Traveller on the other side of the fence. "Just needed some ponderin' time, I reckon. Always seem to think best when I'm under an open sky." Pause, then: "It's over for real this time, ain't it?"

"I'd say so," Slim agreed. "Barcombe's dead—any number of people have seen him—which means that, with J.D.'s word already given, Box Fifteen's safe." He was silent a moment, remembering, Jess guessed, what had happened when the Mormon stockman's body was carried down the alley alongside the hotel and across the street and lain out on the porch of the Valley Green. Aurelia Blaine had come out, along with her girls and Ned, and stood a moment looking down at the dead man, then slowly knelt to lift his head onto her lap and hold it there as she unfastened her long dangling black onyx earrings. She'd held them in her hand a heartbeat or two, then turned back the man's coat to slip them into his pocket. _They were his wedding gift to me,_ she'd said to J.D. _I've kept them all these years, worn them every day, so I wouldn't forget. Now I don't have to any more. Bury them with him_. And her step-nephew had nodded somberly, silently.

"Yeah," Jess agreed. "And so's Salbridge."

"Which makes you safe—doesn't it?" asked Slim.

"I dunno," Jess admitted. "The kid's family—at least his pa—is still around. If he finds out about this..."

"Aren't you the one I've heard say that a man can't live his life on what-if?" Slim inquired gently.

Pause. "I reckon so."

They stood quietly for a minute or two, and then Slim said, "I'm startin' for home tomorrow. If I wait any longer I'm likely to get stuck on this side of South Pass till the snow melts in the spring."

Jess nodded. "Might be rough gettin' through even now." It hadn't escaped him that the rancher had said _I,_ not _we._ He waited to see if any explanation was forthcoming.

He could hear Slim breathing, deep inhalations as if he were nerving himself up for something. Then: "Jess... you'll go with me, won't you?"

"You been thinkin' I won't?"

"I'm not sure what I've been thinkin'," Slim confessed. "I can't make out what _you've_ been thinkin'. Sometimes it seems you want to, other times it's like you're afraid to." _Reckon that pretty close to sums it up,_ Jess thought. "But I know what I want. I know what I believe. You belong with us, Jess." A hesitation, then: "I understand why you left. I still don't think you should have. But if you really don't feel we can make it work..."

Jess said nothing for several long moments. He was thinking about Wolf Sleeping's dream and about the revelation that had come to him as he watched Slim make ready to face Salbridge in his place. He knew it had been real. But he hesitated to try to put it into words. He knew how it would sound. And there was still a part of him that felt uneasy at giving anyone so much power over him. His freedom, even if it was only theoretical, remained a pillar of his outlook on life. He needed to feel that, if he ever got to finding it hard to breathe, he still had the option to go. Maybe—almost certainly—he would come back, eventually, but that option had to remain open. He wasn't sure Slim would understand that; wasn't sure anyone could, who hadn't been born and brought up in the limitless spaces of the Panhandle or spent ten formative years as a drifter, soldier, and gun for hire.

But there was also the comprehension that without Slim and Andy, Jonesy and the ranch, life wasn't worth the living...

"I reckon we could try," he said softly.

And Slim's face suddenly lit with his beautiful smile, just before he reached out and enveloped the smaller man in a powerful hug. "We _will_ try," he agreed.

"Hey, c'mon, leggo!" Jess protested. "You're squeezin' my arm, hardcase!"

Slim immediately, guiltily released him. "I'm sorry. I forgot, just for a second."

Jess shrugged. "No harm done. The girls bandaged it up real good." He tilted his face skyward again. "Sun'll be risin' around quarter past seven. Don't give us but maybe ten hours of light. Reckon we can get over the line into Wyomin' before we got to make camp?"

"I think if you're as tough as you claim to be, we can make it to the forks of the Green," said Slim. "And, you know, when they were surveying for the railroad, they found a lower route than the one over the Pass. Goes by way of Rock Springs and Rawlins—the new coach road, since the war. If we take that, and the weather holds, we can make Medicine Bow in two or three more days. And from there it's less than another to Laramie."

"Four, maybe five all told," Jess calculated.

"Right. It could take twice that if we follow the emigrant road. It did me—that's why I took so long catchin' up with you."

"Took me just about the same, the way I went," said Jess. " 'Course part of that was tryin' to hide my trail."

"Which way _did_ you go?" Slim asked.

"Over the Snowy Mountain road, and across the sage flats."

Slim nodded. "I had a feeling maybe you had, when I didn't get any word of you in Medicine Bow and South Pass City. You know, we can't have been much more than twenty miles from each other when we went over the Green."

"Yeah, I thought of that. Only... only I wasn't plumb sure you'd follow. I mean, with all them chores I didn't get the chance to do..."

Slim slapped his arm gently. "Always, Jess." Then: "Let's get back to bed. We'll want to give ourselves time for a hearty breakfast and to say goodbye to French and his young'uns."

**SR**

**Medicine Bow, four days later:**

"We ought to stay where we are," said Slim, worriedly eyeing the black rolling bank of clouds visible over the Freezeout Mountains in the northwest, then turning to regard the feathery white cumulus building up horizontally elsewhere. The wind was light, but definitely trending from south and east. "It's coming up a snow."

"Nothin' strange about that, by all them stories you've told me about Wyomin' winters," Jess replied, pulling Traveller's cinch tight.

"No," Slim admitted, "but if those clouds meet overhead, we're in for a serious storm."

Jess laughed. "Shoot, hardcase, I know you worry about everything, but them mountains—ain't they twenty miles or more from here? And anyhow, the wind's all wrong."

"Not really. Just because it's not too strong at our level doesn't mean it isn't faster high up. And if it switches around..."

"All the more reason to get movin'," Jess argued. "You're the one said it was less'n a day's travel from here to Laramie."

Slim regarded him uneasily. "You're goin' on no matter what I say, aren't you?"

"I'm tired of hotel beds," said Jess. "And more tired of campouts and your cookin'. I can plumb hear my bunk and Jonesy's pies callin' to me. We can beat it. Come on."

Slim shook his head. _Obstinate, mule-headed... but if I let him go on alone, and he doesn't make it, how can I ever explain it to Andy? _"All right," he said with a sigh. "But I don't like it!"

**SR**

The rain began just before eleven. _I knew it,_ Slim told himself, looking around and trying to get oriented. They had passed through Rock River about ninety minutes out of Medicine Bow, and he had tried again, without success, to persuade Jess to lay over. Now there was nothing between them and Laramie but the occasional ranch or stage relay for thirty miles or so, and another dozen to Sherman Ranch. More than five hours in good weather; God knew what it would be once the weather thickened.

The temperature, which had been nearly fifty when they pulled out of Medicine Bow, now began to drop rapidly, a phenomenon especially typical of the northern plains in November and March. Soon the rain had transformed to sleet, icing the ground and forcing them to slow their pace for fear the horses would slip, and then to heavy snow.

Jess had pulled his muffler up over his nose and mouth and his hat down over his ears; in the brief glimpses Slim got of him through the thickening snow, he looked unhappy and worried. "Pull up!" Slim yelled, not sure the Texan would hear him over the steady whine of the wind.

But Jess did. "Turn back?" he suggested, his words barely distinguishable through the heavy knitted wool.

"Not now," Slim told him. "Wind's switched around, just like I said. We can't push the horses into it, they won't stand for it."

"So what do we do?"

Slim took a careful breath; even with the wind at his back, the air going into his lungs felt like knives. "Take a chance," he decided. "I'm givin' Alamo his head. He's been all over this part of the country, maybe he can find us some shelter."

"Sorry," Jess offered. "Should'a' figured on you knowin' the weather in these parts better'n I could."

"Too late for that now," Slim told him. "Come on, and stick close."

He was never quite sure how long they went on after that. The horses plodded slowly, steadily through the accumulating snow. Slim had only the most general idea what time of day it was or where they were, although from the feel of the wind on his back he was pretty sure that they were still moving southeast. If he'd been able to see, even if he couldn't find any familiar landmarks, he'd at least have stood a chance of locating some kind of shelter—a cave, a good patch of conifers, a line shack or an old trapper's cabin. As things stood, all he could do was trust in Alamo's instincts.

Jess was hunched over in his saddle, hat pulled down low, one hand clamped over the horn, the other clenched around the reins. He wasn't making any effort to direct Traveller, who hung close by Alamo's side, trusting his stablemate just as Slim did. Fearing that they might get separated, Slim had unshipped his lariat and dropped the loop over the bay's head, snubbing him up within a yard or so, which was close enough that he could keep checking to make sure Jess was still on his back. Not that he didn't know Jess could literally sleep in his saddle, holding himself in place by habit and the strong muscles of a horseman's legs and thighs, but he hadn't come all this way to take unnecessary chances.

He could only guess how long they had been plowing along when Alamo suddenly stopped. He looked up in surprise and dismay, squinting through the flying snow, to find himself nearly nose-to-wood with the looming dark shape of what, by its dimensions, almost had to be a barn. He gaped at it a moment in disbelief, and then relief flooded through him and he patted Alamo's neck. "Good boy. Good boy. I knew you could do it..."

Alamo snorted (inaudibly in the clamor of the wind, but Slim could feel it) and bobbed his head, his nose pointing at the building as much as to say, _Well, I got you here—now it's up to you._

Carefully Slim eased out of the saddle and shuffled the two or three feet through the snow to the door. Most barns, he knew, had no locks (although sheds often did), but were designed with bars both inside and out, so that no matter which side of the door you happened to be on, you could make certain a sudden gust wouldn't blow it open. He groped around at waist level and found the thick, squared, oblong shape of the bar, the pivot-pin at the outer end, and the open-topped brackets that held it. He located the projecting hand-loop and grasped hold of it, lifting. The bar swung over easily and Slim wrestled the door open by a foot or two against the snow that had piled up at its base, creating a little drift as snow will do wherever an obstruction, of whatever size, blocks the wind. He caught hold of Alamo's bit and guided the chestnut into the darkness beyond, with Traveller eagerly crowding in at his side. Alamo needed no urging, and once he saw that the horse was moving of his own accord, Slim let him go and fell in behind the animals to pull the door shut after them, grope for the inside bar and drop it in place.

With the wind cut off by the building's walls, the interior felt almost warm—_was_ warm, with the collected body heat of animals. Slim could hear them breathing, moving around in their stalls, the stamp of hooves, the rustle of bedding. Alamo nickered and was answered. There was no light at all, but Slim took a chance that whoever this barn belonged to would have the same habit as himself, and keep a lantern and matchbox close by the door for just such situations as this. Running his fingertips along the inner surface as a guide, and feeling ahead of him with the other hand, he quickly found what he'd been hoping for—a small shelf, about five and a half feet off the floor, and on it the unmistakable shape of a railroad lantern, with the little oblong of a tin matchbox alongside. He wound up the chimney by touch, fumbled a match out and struck it, held it to the wick. A warm glow of yellow light answered, making him squint at first. He let the chimney down and turned to face into the barn, past the two horses. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he gaped in astonishment at the sight of the narrow rumps of two cows in the stalls nearest the door on his right, the broad solid-colored quarters of a line of big 1100-pound horses on his left, just past a 500-gallon water tank guarded by a swinging gate, with a two-inch pipe projecting from it and a foot-long spanner fixed to the four-way tap handle. At the extreme edge of the lantern's halo of light he could make out a couple of empty stalls all the way back on the left, one with a broken-backed kitchen chair set just outside it, the other throwing back a faint gleam of soaped leather and dull brass. He looked at the cows again, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The patterns of their spots were unmistakable. Jonesy's. He—_they,_ he and Jess and the horses—they were home.

Alamo shuddered his coat, shaking snow off his rump. The wet plopping sound as it slid off and landed in the centerway roused Slim from his trance. _"Good_ boy," he repeated warmly, striding forward with the lantern to pat the chestnut's neck and scratch his forehead. "I don't know how you did it, but I'm sure glad it was you I was ridin' today." Then he turned to check on Jess, who was still in the saddle and hadn't stirred. "Jess," he said, laying his hand on the chaps-covered thigh, and then, more urgently, "Jess. _Jess!_ Are you with me? Wake up, Jess."

"Wha'...?" Jess shook his head, blinking; raised it and looked slowly around with a dazed, confused air. "Wha' happ'n'? Where... are we?"

"In our own barn, believe it or not," Slim told him. "Alamo found it. Come on, you need to get down. I'll take care of Traveller for you."

Jess clumsily pulled his right foot back out of the stirrup, lifted the leg and slung it across the bay's back, and came out of the saddle in what was almost a controlled fall. "No," he mumbled. "C'n take... care of... m'own horse..." But he was clutching the horn for support, leaning heavily against his patient mount's side.

"Jess, listen to me. You're exhausted and half frozen. You can hardly stand. You probably couldn't hold a currycomb right now if your life depended on it, much less haul water or grain. Sit down, rest, let yourself get a little warmer. You trust me with your horse, don't you?"

Jess looked slowly around at him. "Sure... I do."

"Then _listen_ to me for once," Slim told him firmly. "You wouldn't be in this shape if you'd done that this morning. Come on..." He guided Jess back to the broken chair set between the two untenanted stalls, one of them used for stage-line harness, the other for tools, saddle soap and oil, axle grease, medications, the old metal burner Jonesy brewed his liniment on, and all the other odd detritus that accumulates in a barn. They often sat on it to check and repair the harness if it was windy outside or promising rain. He got Jess settled on it, his back against the stanchion at the outer end of the shared partition, and went back to the waiting horses. On the way he noticed that Alamo's and Traveller's regular stalls were prepared for tenants, each with a thick layer of bedding lain down crosswise and built up in the corners, hay bulging out of the rack, a water bucket in the clamps. That would have been Andy's doing. Slim smiled at the thought of his kid brother's unshakable faith. _He never doubted we'd both come back,_ he thought, _and he knew we'd want to put the horses up when we did. I should tell him more often how much I appreciate everything he does. Even if they're chores and his responsibility—the fact that he's here to do them, and does, takes a lot of the load off the rest of us._

He loosed the lariat from Traveller's neck, coiled it and rehung it on his saddlefork, then led each horse into its familiar stall, changed bridles for halters, and let them drink while he stripped off saddles and blankets, hung the former on their regular sawhorses and spread the latter over them to air. He fired up the burner to make a warm mash for the chilled animals, dug the packed snow out of their shoes and checked for stones, loose nails, and other problems while they began tearing eagerly at their hay. He rubbed them down and curried them, then fetched oats from the tin-lined 500-bushel bin in the storage stall, blanketed them, and brought them their mash. "There you go," he told Alamo as the chestnut plunged his muzzle into his portion. "You deserve it. You probably saved all our lives. I wish I knew how you knew where to go..."

He left the faithful animals to their feast and unfastened his and Jess's baggage from their saddles, carrying it back to the side door that let into the sheltered space under the lean-to roof, lifting the latch to peer out into the snow. The quality of the light had changed; given the length of time it had taken him to look after the horses, it was probably seven-thirty or past. He could make out the glow of the kitchen lights; at least Jonesy was still up, which was good—he wouldn't have to wake up the whole house to get indoors. Squinting through the flying snow, he could distinguish a guide rope strung from a ring alongside the door, out past the uprights that supported the roof, vanishing into the smother. _Jonesy's sacroiliac must have warned him about the storm,_ he thought, _and he told Andy to string the guides before it got here. Good, that'll help us make our way to the house._

He heaped the baggage and the two Winchesters alongside the door, pulled it closed and went back to see how Jess was doing. The younger man was looking around him in a kind of dull wonder, a hint of normal color in his lean cheeks. "I... I know where we are," he said slowly, as Slim dropped to a heel-squat in front of him. "How did we—did you...?"

"Nothin' to do with me. I just let Alamo have his head. How are you feelin'?"

"Some better..."

"That's good. I can see the kitchen lights from the side door, Jonesy's still up. Let's get goin'. We'll be fillin' up on some good hot food before you know it." He stood, held out his hand to help the other man to his feet.

Jess hesitated. "Do we got to? Andy might be sleepin'... don't wanta wake him... we could go up in the loft, burrow into the hay... we got our blankets, we'd be okay for tonight. Couldn't count how many times I've slept that way, and in worse weather than this..."

It was very logical, especially given how unused Jess must be to the kind of weather currently having its way with the countryside, but Slim had begun to get a feel for the Texan's tones, the way his brows and mouth angled, the way he stood or sat, and he knew that Jess was uneasy, dubious, maybe even a little scared. "Jess, I already told you. Jonesy and Andy want you home just as much as I do. They're not gonna be hard on you, or ask you questions you're not ready to answer. They know why you left. They don't believe you needed to, but they know why _you_ thought you did. All they want is the same thing I do, to see you safe again. Come on," he coaxed, "there might even be somethin' left of supper. Aren't you hungry? I know I am."

Jess seemed to ponder this. "I reckon so," he said in a subdued voice, after a moment or two.

"All right, then. Here, give me your hand and I'll help you get up."

Another hesitation, and then slowly the woollen-gloved hand—Jess had pulled off his mittens as the warmth of the barn began to seep into his bones—lifted and slipped into his...

**SR**

Andy had dried the dishes and put them away, then drifted aimlessly out through the arch to the sitting room. Jonesy watched him go, then turned to sorting the silver into its compartments in the drawer. Today was the one-month anniversary of Jess's flight, and the boy had been restless ever since he got out of bed that morning, but in a good way, more talkative than at any time since the Texan had gone, repeating several times that he was "sure they'll be home soon." Jonesy was afraid he was just trying to keep his own spirits up; beginning to think that Jess was gone for good, if not Slim—surely Slim should have been able to catch up with him by now, if he'd guessed right about the way Jess had gone.

"Jonesy! Jonesy! It's Slim—_and he's brought Jess home!"_

Jonesy bolted for the main room with never a thought of his sacroiliac. Sure enough, Slim was standing just inside the room, a little pile of bedrolls and saddlebags and booted carbines heaped around his feet, shaking snow off himself and supporting a white-faced, half-conscious Jess, who leaned heavily against him while Andy wrestled the door shut against the wind, dropped the bar and shot the bolt home. "I looked out the front window—I don't know why—and I saw somethin' movin' out in the snow, and I ran to the door..." he was saying, words tumbling all over each other.

"Get those wet things off, both of you," Jonesy ordered, "and get that boy over by the fire. Andy, fetch that striped Indian blanket off your bed and spread it on the rocker so we can wrap it around him and keep the drafts off him." Andy vanished into the bunkroom without a word. "Here, Slim, you hold him while I get his gear off..."

Slim, with obvious relief, held Jess erect while Jonesy quickly unbuttoned his coat, unwound his muffler, and unbuckled his chaps, then helped the younger man over to "his" rocker, where Andy was already arranging the warm blanket. Jess's feet still tracked, though he needed to be pointed in the right direction. "Go fill the dishpan with warm water out of the reservoir," Jonesy told the boy, "and poke up the fire in the stove. Pull the coffeepot to the front, too."

Andy nodded and fled. Slim and Jonesy got Jess settled in the chair; he was shivering a little now, but as the blanket was folded around him this eased considerably and his whole body went slack, head sagging against the rocker's back, eyes sliding shut. "How's he hurt?" Jonesy demanded.

"Believe it or not, he really isn't," Slim replied, as he began skinning out of his own winter gear. "He took a bullet above the knee more than three weeks ago, but I made him see a doctor when we passed through Rock Springs, and it was healin' normally then. And he took a flesh wound in the left arm about a week back, but that's almost closed up. Mostly I think he's just exhausted—and cold."

"_That_ doesn't surprise me," Jonesy muttered. "Bet neither of you's had a bite all day, either."

"No, we didn't dare stop—and we probably couldn't have gotten a fire started in any case," Slim told him. "I actually thought he was recoverin' a little in the barn—he seemed to be gettin' his color back, but I guess that little interval just made him feel the cold all the worse when we went out in it again."

"The barn?" Jonesy repeated in surprise.

"Yeah, Alamo took us there first. Surprised me, too. I almost couldn't believe it when I got a lantern lit and saw all that stage stock and your cows in the stalls."

"Well, we'll warm him up and get some hot coffee in him," Jonesy declared, "and Andy and me finished our supper a good hour ago, but I can throw somethin' together for you two. How would eggs and potatoes and ham sound? And I've got half a loaf of sourdough bread left—I can toast some in the oven and open a jar of jam to put on it."

Slim smiled. "Jonesy, that sounds better to me right now than the finest steak dinner in Denver."

Andy came in, cautiously holding a pan of gently steaming water. "The stove's heatin' up really good, Jonesy," he reported, "and the coffee's startin' to warm."

"Good," the old man told him. "You stay with Jess, get his feet into that water and see if you can rouse him—but be gentle about it. I might need Slim's help in the kitchen."

"Okay," Andy agreed, and knelt to place the dishpan before the hearth and begin wrestling Jess's snow-caked boots off.

In the other room, Jonesy cracked eggs into his big skillet and drained the potato slices that had been waiting for morning in a lidded bucket of water so they wouldn't dry out and turn brown, while Slim sliced ham and bread, buttered the latter and laid it out on a baking sheet to be slid into the oven. By the time he had that done, the coffee was hot. From the sitting room they could hear Andy's coaxing voice, and then after a while a slow, blurred response in Jess's gravelly Panhandle drawl, instantly followed by a cry of relief from the boy.

Slim poured two cups full of coffee, spooned sugar into them for an extra energy jolt, and took them out to the main room. Jess was sitting up, still looking a little dazed, but with a good color coming back. His bare feet rested in the dishpan, and he'd pushed the blanket back so he could move his arms. "Here you go," Slim told him, handing him one of the cups. "Careful, it's hot. Take it slow."

The Texan accepted it gratefully and sipped cautiously, holding the liquid in his mouth a moment before letting it go down, sighing in sensuous relief as its heat spread through his chilled body. "Dad-gum, that's good," he said.

"Food's comin' as soon as Jonesy can get it ready. You feelin' better?" Slim folded both hands around his own cup and drank with equal slowness.

"Some," Jess allowed. "Don't know why I give out like that... sorry."

"It's been a long day," Slim replied with a shrug. "You're entitled. Besides, you're not used to our winters here."

"_That's_ sure true," Jess mumbled, and returned his attention to his coffee.

"Slim," came Jonesy's voice, "can you come help me carry?"

"Right with you, Jonesy." Slim set his cup on the hearth-shelf, safely out of the way of Andy and the dishpan, and went back.

Jonesy was cuddling fried eggs into all the hollows and spaces of a platter of steaming fried ham. "You take the potatoes and the toast," he ordered, "and once I get this done I'll get the jam down. Since there's just the two of you, I thought best to let you eat at the kitchen table where you can get some benefit from the stove."

Slim noticed that he'd already set out plates and silver on the checkered oilcloth cover. "Andy," he called, "get Jess's feet dry and into a pair of socks, even if you have to use some of mine. We're eatin' out here."

"Okay, Slim," came the reply.

In minutes the two returning wanderers were eagerly stuffing themselves with ham and eggs, potatoes and onions fried together, canned peaches, and hot golden buttered toast spread with wild-plum jam. When they had eaten every bit, Jonesy brought out two big slices of warmed berry pie, blueberry, wild cherry, and gooseberry mixed. Jess grinned up at him. "That's one thing I sure been missin', Jonesy—your pies," he said.

"If you'll stay put, blame young fool," the old man growled, "you won't have to miss 'em. And by the way, you're swappin' beds with Andy for a while. I don't want you climbin' into that upper bunk till I at least have a chance to look at this wound Slim says you've got."

Jess, uncharacteristically for him, didn't argue the point; he just ducked his head and stuck his fork into his pie. Andy was watching him as if the sight of a man eating was a miracle; the boy was clearly bursting with questions but so simply and purely delighted to have them home that everything else took second place to simply soaking up their presence, trying to assure himself that he wasn't dreaming, that they were really here. He looked up to his big brother. "Slim? Did he?"

"Well, he started to, just like I figured," Slim admitted, "but he only got as far as Utah. We'd probably have been home ten days ago, but there was... a little trouble."

Andy sobered immediately. "Was it... I mean, did somebody..."

"The same one who came by here and asked you questions," said Slim. "He must have picked up my trail somehow and guessed what I was tryin' to do. But there's no need to worry about _him_ any more."

Andy knew better than to say he was glad to hear of a man's death, but Slim could almost hear him fiercely thinking exactly that. "Will you tell us?"

"Not tonight," Slim replied firmly. "We've had a long trip, and Jess is tired. Which reminds me, Jess, maybe you'd better turn in. I know it's early yet, but you want to get warmed up before you catch something."

Jess nodded wearily. "Yeah... don't recollect when I felt this wiped out..." He got slowly to his feet, bracing his weight a moment against the table, then straightened tentatively. Andy watched him uncertainly for a moment, then hurled himself at the Texan and flung both arms against the man's lean waist.

"Jess, I'm so _glad_ you're home!"

Jess stiffened in his embrace, just for a second, and then slowly wrapped his arms around the boy and held him close. "I..." he began uncertainly; hesitated, then said, "Thanks, Tiger. Does me good to hear you say that."

"Don't ever leave us again, Jess," Andy whispered against his hero's shirt, in a voice so low that only Jess could hear it. "Not the way you did this time. Don't ever think it's better for us that you should go. It's not, Jess. It's not. It never will be, no matter what you do. This is your home. Now and for always."

Jess's throat closed up; he couldn't speak, and his sinuses felt uncomfortably tickly. All he could do was lay one hand on Andy's head and stand there, his eyes shifting from Slim to Jonesy and back again. _I know that now,_ _Tiger, _he thought. _Only you'll have to forgive me if I'm kind of scared to say so..._

**SR**

A flood of dazzling white light woke Jess as it poured over his right shoulder from the high-set bunkroom windows. He sighed, grunted, and slowly rolled onto his back, blinking in confusion. He recognized the room, but somehow it didn't seem that it should be so bright.

The door opened and Slim stepped in, looked toward the bed, stopped and smiled. "Well, good morning."

" 'Mornin'," said Jess, his voice gruff and thick with sleep. "Wha'time's it?"

"Little past seven."

Jess's brows drew together. "Ain't us'ally so bright that early."

"No," Slim agreed, "not unless it's snowed five inches in the last eighteen hours. What you're seein' is the sundazzle off what fell."

"Snow...?" Jess repeated. "Hey... why'd you let me sleep so late? Who done the barn chores?"

"Andy and me. He was too excited to sleep."

Jess got his elbows under him and pushed up, his head tilted, a faint frown on his face. Slim pulled a chair away from the wall, reversed it and straddled it, studying the younger man's reactions. "Do you remember anything from just before we got here?" he asked. He knew that exposure to cold could affect a man's thinking and memory.

Jess concentrated. "It... it was snowin'," he said slowly. "Wasn't it?"

"That's right," said Slim, and waited.

"You wanted... to stop," Jess ventured, feeling his way. "To hole up till the weather got better. In Medicine Bow."

"And in Rock River," Slim agreed. "Only you weren't havin' it. You were set on gettin' back here, as fast as we could." _And your bullheadedness could'a' gotten us both dead, if Alamo hadn't had more sense than either one of us,_ he thought.

Jess looked up at him, his eyes wide and bright. He might not be used to Wyoming winters, but he knew the Plains at this season. "I... I shouldn't'a' done that," he said after a moment.

"No, you shouldn't," said Slim.

"I... I didn't have no right. I put you in danger. It don't matter so much about me, but you—I shouldn't'a' done that, least after Vernal. You oughtta decked me, Slim."

"Thought about it," Slim agreed. "Jess—there's nothin' you should feel you have to prove to me. Do you understand?"

"I know that." Jess's voice was very soft, and a little unsteady. "It ain't..." He paused, searching for words. Then, almost inaudibly: "It wasn't about provin'."

"What then?" Slim's tone was gentle, genuinely curious.

Again Jess struggled; his throat worked, and away back in his deep-blue eyes was a very old, very private pain. "I..." He trailed off, and finally said, "You wouldn't understand."

"I could try," Slim suggested.

But Jess only shook his head and stared at the quilt, unable to meet his eyes.

Neither one said anything for a moment. "All right," Slim agreed. "I'm not gonna push you, Jess. But just so you know... if you ever get to where you're ready to talk about it, whatever it is... I'll be here. After what happened in Vernal, that's the least I owe you." Then his tone changed. "I'll bet you're hungry. Want to get dressed and come have some breakfast?"

**SR**

_Harper, you're a coward, _Jess told himself some twenty minutes later, as, washed, shaved, and dressed, he settled into his usual chair next to Andy's and found a stack of steaming wheatcakes—made _according to Jonesy's personal recipe with a dash of cornmeal in the batter for extra flavor—set before him. ___Why didn't you tell him? He was ready to listen. After what he done for you in Vernal, put his own life at risk, the least you could do is—__

__Is what? Put yourself through that hurt all over again? It close to killed you the first time.__

__/You wouldn't have to go quite that far, not yet,/ __something replied._ /___/You could'a' just said it's been so long since you had a home that you didn't want to waste no time gettin' back to this one. Of course you'll have to tell him sometime; he deserves it, you know that. If you stay... the day's gonna come when he'll figure he's got the right to know what set you on the drift in the first place. He'll be askin' himself, what can he do to make sure you don't do it again, and leave him and his behind./__

__No, I can't. I just ain't ready. When he asks, maybe. Not till then.__

__Shoot, if I'd taken all that time, this good grub would'a' been spoiled for sure.__

"Slim? You reckon there'll be stages today?" he asked, digging his fork into the tender flapjacks.

The rancher considered the question. "Likely not till afternoon," he decided. "The snow's not all that deep, but they'll have to get the roads rolled before anything can move on 'em."

"Maybe we could look over the harness?" Jess suggested.

"That sounds like a good idea," Slim agreed. "Which reminds me, Jonesy—where's Ben?"

"Oh, he got a letter—his sister's sick, up in Casper. Lucky he could take the stage. I could feel the storm comin' by then, and I figured traffic'd start fallin' off and Andy could help me with what there was, for a few days anyhow."

"How about all them jobs Slim wanted me to do?" Jess asked diffidently. "I know I shouldn't—"

"That's okay," the old man interrupted. "George Bates and Joe McCaskey came over and saw to it. And Mort sent out a couple of men from town to work off a fight they were in; they fetched in enough firewood to keep us for a month or so anyhow. There's sure to be a chinook before we need to go lookin' for more. Eat those cakes before they get cold, boy," he added to Jess, "I made 'em special to celebrate the two of you comin' home."

Later, Jess stood in the bunkroom staring at the gunbelt looped over the headpost of Andy's bed, and the ivory handle of the gun in the holster. A footstep turned him, to see Slim following the direction of his gaze. The rancher gave it a moment or two, then looked up and said, "I won't tell you to put it back, if you don't want to. But I've still got your other one—been carryin' it in my saddlebag since I left here, except that day we went to scatter Barcombe's sheep."

"It ain't that I don't want to put it back," said Jess. "It's just that... like I said... them Hamrys are still around. It might come to somebody else like Salbridge payin' us a visit. I don't want you put in danger for my sake, Slim, and I don't want Andy to have to see another gunfight in his own front yard. But if it ever does happen... at least I know what I can do with this gun."

"We'll go talk to Mort," Slim offered. "Maybe we can get him to put out a report that you're dead. In three years I've been running this place as a relay, there's never been any but that one Hamry comin' through here. It must have been a fluke."

"You hate lyin'," said Jess, thinking, __You'd do that for me? Compromise such a big part of what you are?__

"I do," Slim agreed. "But keepin' you here, and safe, is more important."

__In that case, I can't rightly do less,__ Jess told himself. "Let's go open up the cubbyhole," he said, "and you dig out my workin' gun."

_**SR**_

In the barn, they fired up Jonesy's burner and sat side by side in a companionable silence, examining harness, not feeling any need to talk except when one of them pointed out a repair job that would have to be done. Jess realized consciously, for perhaps the first time, that Slim was one of the few people he'd ever met with whom he could be entirely comfortable just _being,_ not needing to talk or anything else. He wondered what that meant, and it led him back to the whole matter of Wolf Sleeping and his dream. He still found it strange—indeed, hard to believe—that after all this time anyone, least of all a man he'd known only six months, could care enough about him to do everything Slim had done: leave the winterizing of his ranch in the hands of neighbors, lose out on time with his brother, risk his life, even offer to bend his principles. _All just to keep a no-'count Texas Harper alive and close by. I reckon that's about as close to a miracle as I'm ever likely to see._

_Well, if seein' the future in a dream ain't a miracle, it'll do till one comes along._

Not long after they had come back from finishing their midday dinner, they heard the odd muffled sound of hooves against snow, and Slim got up and walked to the door of the barn. Watching past his tall figure, Jess saw that a horseman had come into the yard; he recognized the horse—a dun with an unusual gray hip blaze—as one of Dennison's rental hacks from Laramie. The man wore a fawn-colored hat, only slightly curled at the last half-inch of the brim, and a bearskin greatcoat with dark corduroy breeches showing underneath. His boots were made of a light, pliable black leather, with graceful spoon-handled spurs on them; they didn't look fancy, but Jess guessed they were expensive. He reined in, looking around, and then caught sight of Slim and nudged the dun forward. "Would this be Sherman Ranch?" he asked.

"It is," said Slim, "and I'm Slim Sherman, the owner."

"Then I'm in luck," said the stranger, "since you're just the man I wanted to talk to."

"Get down and tie your horse," Slim invited. "We've had dinner, but you're welcome to a cup of coffee and whatever Jonesy can scare up."

"That's all right, I ate before I left Laramie. In fact, I'd rather talk privately, if you don't mind, Mr. Sherman."

"Come into the barn, then, and get out of the wind, it's picked up again since the snow stopped," Slim offered.

Jess slowly eased the harness off his knees and stood up, feeling a need to clear for action, though he didn't know why; the rider might well have a gun under his greatcoat, but it wasn't likely he could get at it very fast. "I won't take up any more of your time than I have to," he was saying as Slim waved him inside, "and in any case the travelling's still pretty slow and I want to get back to town before it gets dark. My name's Hamry—"

_Hamry!_

The plain walnut-handled Colt was in Jess's hand and levelled on the stranger faster than most men could have seen. "Step away from him, Slim," said Jess, his voice harsh. _So,_ he was thinking, _one of 'em decided it might make better sense to do the job personally. _He didn't doubt that Salbridge, who after all had been on retainer, had written or telegraphed the family once he realized that Jess was no longer here, almost a month ago, but it didn't occur to him to wonder how Hamry would have known, or guessed, that he was back again.

"Jess..." Slim started.

"Get away from him, I told you," Jess repeated, an edge coming into his voice, and Slim slowly backed two or three steps away. Jess stepped out into the centerway, the Colt steady in his hand.

"Jess Harper, I presume," said Hamry. His eyes were a light blue-green that resembled transparent marble—the kind of light eyes many gunfighters had. _So maybe this is why the kid was lookin' for a rep, _Jess thought. _Maybe he grew up knowin' about this cousin, or brother, or whatever he is, and wanted to be like him._

"Yeah," Jess grated.

The other looked him slowly up and down, seeming to measure him by some private criteria, his gaze dwelling briefly on Jess's straight shoulders, his poised, balanced stance, his angular jaw and steady eyes. "I got into Laramie the day before yesterday," Hamry said calmly. "It was too late in the day to come out here, but in one of the saloons last night I overheard a driver for the Overland saying he was almost positive he'd seen you and Mr. Sherman on the road between Rock Springs and Rawlins. He'd been making up time, he said, and hadn't wanted to stop, but he'd bet you'd be home by today."

Jess remembered a stagecoach hammering past them somewhere along the stretch referred to; he hadn't noticed which driver it was, but apparently the fellow had gotten enough of a look at them, from his high vantage point, to be able to guess who they were, and Mose had probably spread the story of Jess's sudden departure all over the division as soon as he heard about it. "Well, I am," he said. "What business is it of yours?"

"You won't need that, Mr. Harper," Hamry told him, nodding toward the Colt. "That _is_ my business. To tell you you've got no reason to expect harm from me or from my family."

Jess snorted. "Your _family,"_ he said snidely, "already sent a gunfighter after me. You won't be seein' him again, neither." But the despair was crowding about his mind once more. Was he going to be faced with the choice of either endlessly defending himself and the people who had taken him in, or taking off again? Which would be better? If he took the latter course, how would he bear that loneliness? If he didn't, could he guarantee their safety forever?

"We sent him to investigate my brother Warren's death, that's true," said Hamry. "We didn't know till five days ago that he had a... personal reason to want to face you. _He_ knew that we—or at least my father and older brother—believed you had been hired to kill Warren, which is a long story that I won't bore you with, and he took advantage of that belief. But our sheriff down in Idaho Springs had heard, some time ago, of your quarrel with Salbridge's partner in Texas. He told my father about it. Dad has written to the authorities down there, to get confirmation and details. You have to understand, Mr. Harper, that Warren was Dad's youngest, and he looked a lot like our mother, who died when he was twelve. To Dad he was always very special. In Dad's eyes, he could do no wrong—or if he did, there had to be a reasonable excuse for it. But Dad also knew that others might not see it that way, which was exactly why he was able to convince himself that someone had been hired to do away with Warren."

"I don't see no point to this yet," Jess observed harshly.

"The point," said Hamry, "is that while my father could believe that people here in Laramie would lie for the sake of a man who had lived several months in their community, especially if they thought someone with power and wealth might be interested in what that man had done, he understands that the people of Denton County, Texas, have no reason to do likewise. They haven't seen you in more than two years. You have—or so I presume—no ties there. They also have no reason to fear him or seek his good opinion, and therefore none to lie. If when he hears from them, they confirm our sheriff's version of events... well, Dad is a hard, tough man who made his fortune with his own hands, but he's not cruel or unjust. I've known him all my life, and I can tell you that without any twitch of conscience. In that case, he'll accept that what he read in your Sheriff Corey's depositions was true, that he'd been deceiving himself about what Warren was, that Warren got exactly what he asked for. And having admitted that much, he'll have no cause to want you dead, Mr. Harper." He spread his hands, shrugged. "I just thought you might want to know."

"You came up from Idaho Springs to tell us that?" guessed Slim, still standing off to the side, watching and listening.

"I did." Hamry's voice was still mild and even. "And just so you'll be a little likelier to believe it, I want to open my coat and show you that I'm not carrying a gun."

Jess considered that. "I reckon it won't hurt none, seein' as mine's already out. Go ahead, but make sure you move slow and easy."

"Slow and easy," Hamry agreed, and began carefully unfastening the front of the greatcoat. Underneath was a dark-brown fingertip suit-coat such as a townsman might wear. He unbuttoned that, and then the checkered vest over his blue woollen shirt. Jess watched keenly as the layers came apart. There was no sidegun, no shoulder holster.

"Satisfied now?" asked Hamry at length.

Jess flicked a quick glance at Slim, whose face told him nothing. _Does he understand why I had to be sure? It ain't me that I care about so much. It's him—them. _"I reckon so," he said, and slowly took the Colt off cock and slipped it into his holster.

Hamry nodded. "Then I've done what I came for. Thank you for your time, Mr. Sherman, Mr. Harper—I'll be going back to Laramie now, and getting a stage south as soon as I can."

"You'd be welcome to stay the night—" Slim began, "take supper with us..."

"No, thanks just the same. I have a feeling I'd be the skeleton at the feast." He paused a moment, looking them over with interest. "Take care of each other, gentlemen," he said then, and turned without another word, walked out to his waiting horse, swung up, and in five minutes was out of sight.

Jess let out his breath in a long, slow sigh. Slim let him stand there for a minute, then walked slowly over to join him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "All right now?" he asked softly.

"Yeah... _now,"_ said Jess.

"You know," Slim went on thoughtfully, "there's a saying about good comin' out of evil. If Hamry's father hadn't had a mistaken view of his son, the boy might never have challenged you. If he hadn't done that, you wouldn't have left. If you hadn't left, neither one of us would have ended up in Vernal, and maybe in the end Box Fifteen wouldn't have won. Maybe, on balance, it was a good thing that it turned out the way it did. Maybe it was even... planned that way."

Jess looked around at him, brows canting quizzically. "You really believe that?"

"I'm not sure whether I do or not," Slim admitted. "It's worth thinkin' about, though." And then: "Let's get back to this harness."

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_Don't give up...  
It's just the weight of the world,  
When your heart's heavy I,  
I will lift it for you,  
Don't give up  
Because you want to be heard  
If silence keeps you I,  
I will break it for you.  
_

_Everybody wants  
To be understood,  
Well, I can hear you  
Everybody wants  
To feel loved  
Don't give up  
because  
you  
are  
loved...!  
_

_Don't give up...  
It's just the hurt that you hide  
When you're lost inside I,  
I'll be there to find you  
Don't give up  
Because you want to burn bright  
If darkness blinds you I,  
I will shine to guide you  
_

_Everybody wants  
To be understood,  
Well, I can hear you  
Everybody wants  
To feel loved  
Don't give up  
because  
you  
are  
loved...!  
You are loved...  
_

_Don't give up  
It's just the weight of the world  
Don't give up  
Everyone needs to be heard  
You are loved...  
_ — "You Are Loved," sung by Josh Groban

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_In the spring of 1871, a letter came to Sherman Ranch announcing the imminent wedding of Mathurin French and Aurelia Blaine. The ranch family wasn't able to attend, but they sent gifts by express. Almost exactly one year later, word arrived of the birth of the couple's son, Matthew Jesse French. His parents both lived to see their first mutual grandchild, who was born in 1899._

_The Mormon courts awarded custody of David Dustin "Davy" Barcombe, born Blaine, to his mother eight months after John Clinton Barcombe's death. In the interval his step-cousin J.D. had explained the full story of his status to him, and he had visited his mother in Vernal several times, giving the two a chance to gradually get acquainted._

_Aurelia promoted Ned the bartender to manager of the Valley Green, and Matt French, leaving his ranch in the capable hands of his "young'uns," bought a saddle shop in town and a small house on the outskirts, where they lived with Davy and "Jesse," as his half-brother was called to avoid confusion with French himself. There were frequent visits back and forth, especially at birthdays and holiday times._

_In 1873, soon after her twentieth birthday, Ellen Hayworth married J.D. Annison and went to live on the Bar Comb. Theirs was a double wedding, as her brother Mark, recently turned 25, redeemed the promise of Jack and Harry Blackmore's sister Laura, 22. Over the decade that followed, Phil, Tommy, and Danny Truesdell and George Hayworth found wives among the local girls, and established ranches subsidiary to Box Fifteen in the neighboring valleys. All eight couples (including Jack and Sarah Blackmore and Charlie and Grace Truesdell) had multiple children, most of whom proved healthy and hardy and lived to grow up and make good lives for themselves all over the Mountain West. Joe and Susie Hayworth, assisted by their foster-parents, went into partnership to raise some of the best stock horses ever bred in the Utah Territory. The family's private silver ledge remained private into the 21st century, used, as French had told Slim, as "fall-back money," enabling them to survive the Great Depression, among other things, without having to sell off land or stock at a loss. Aurelia also sent Hardy Medbury to a boarding school in Denver and assisted his mother to start a millinery business, which prospered. As for the town of Vernal, it grew, and became a Gentile bastion in northeast Utah and the center of a thriving livestock, honey, hay, and grain culture._

_And one Jesse Devlin Harper, having entered a new phase of his relationship with the Sherman Ranch family, slowly and gradually, over the next eighteen or twenty months, came to realize that he truly was home, that he was wanted and loved, and—after Slim Sherman's confrontation with Ben Parkison—that Slim regarded him as a brother. And in 1871 he finally told Slim the whole story of what had become of his "first family"..._

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**What Happened When  
(For those who may have gotten confused, trying to keep track)**

Day 1 – Slim leaves for Denver  
Day 2 (evening) – Slim reaches Denver  
Day 3-5 – Roundup Day  
Day 3-8 – Slim's meetings  
Day 6 – the gunfight; Jess leaves (spends the night in the mountain cabin)  
Day 7 (late evening) – Hamrys meet in Idaho Springs. Jess camps in the juniper patch  
Day 8 – Salbridge leaves for Laramie; Jess camps the night in the abandoned sodhouse  
Day 9 – Slim takes stage for home; Salbridge reaches Laramie; Jess is in the south part of the Basin.  
Day 10 – Jess zigzags across Cole Rogers's range and starts up into the Medicine Bows. Salbridge visits Sherman Ranch; Slim gets home (evening).  
Day 11 – Slim takes off after Jess; Salbridge picks him up in Rock River, and both overnight in Medicine Bow, where Salbridge writes and posts a letter to the Hamrys.  
Day 13 – Jess crosses the Green  
Day 14 – Jess reaches the pass  
Day 15 (midday) – Jess reaches Vernal and has his set-to with J.D. Annison &amp; Co.  
Day 16 – the Hamrys get Salbridge's letter. Slim almost crosses into Utah, then doubles back. Barcombe's men start for the ranch with Jess and are ambushed.  
Day 17 (midday) – Slim reaches the pass; Alamo pulls up lame (midafternoon), and they spend that night (and the next three days) in the valley while Salbridge passes by unknowingly. Two of French's boys secretly visit Aurelia to ask after Jess's possible partner.  
Day 18 – Salbridge reaches Vernal  
Day 19 – Salbridge meets Barcombe, who sends for a deputy sheriff—and the Moberlys  
Day 21 – Slim reaches Vernal (early evening), overnights there  
Day 22 – Slim reaches Box Fifteen  
Day 23 – Jess is conscious and coherent, his fever is way down  
Day 25 – Barcombe's messenger arrives with the deputy  
Day 27 – Jess starts walking  
Day 28 – Slim goes scouting with Jack and Harry  
Day 29 – Slim lays out his plan; the Moberlys arrive; Hardy brings word (that evening) of them; Box 15 scatters Barcombe's sheep (that night)  
Day 30 – the faceoffs with Barcombe and J.D.  
Day 31 – Sheriff Burness, in Idaho Springs, tells Justin Hamry about Jervis's death  
Day 32 – the duel in Vernal  
Day 33-36 – Slim and Jess on the trail  
Day 34 – Justin arrives in Laramie  
Day 36 (late) – Slim and Jess reach Sherman Ranch  
Day 37 – Justin visits them

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**Note:** I could never have told the story of Slim's and Jess's journey without the help of the WPA _State Guides _to Wyoming and Utah, Wallace Stegner's book _Mormon Country,_ various articles on Wikipedia, and my copy of the _Reader's Digest Great World Atlas._ The town of Vernal, Utah, really exists, and is situated as I've described. Unlike most Utah communities, it wasn't settled by Mormon pioneers. Brigham Young sent a scouting party to the Uinta Basin (it didn't acquire the 'h' for some years) in 1861 and received word back that the area was good for nothing but Indian hunting grounds—although the WPA's compilers, 70-odd years later, described the location as "a large green valley." The first white settlers arrived in 1878, and the Church helped establish the place as a city six years later, but it wasn't incorporated until 1897, and because of the distance to a major railhead, and the fact that the valley was sometimes snowed-up till March, the settlers remained self-sufficient for a considerable period thereafter, with cattle and sheep raising, milling, honey production, and farming grains and alfalfa being the primary industries. The town is described as being "plenty tough" in its early days, and in the '90's was often visited by Butch Cassidy's Wild Bunch, who operated out of Browns Hole, at the corner where Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado come together. Stockmen moved in early, despite the fact that the area had been designated an Indian reservation in '64, a purpose to which nearly all the basin was eventually reserved, as described below. Uintah County, of which Vernal is the seat, was split off from Wasatch County in 1880, and neighboring Duchesne County in 1913. Wasatch County, in turn, was originally part of Utah and Sanpete Counties, and was designated a separate entity in 1862, with its county seat at Heber City.

In our reality, in 1864, President Abraham Lincoln was asked by Brigham Young, then the Utah Territorial Governor as well as the head of the Mormon Church, to establish a reservation to which to forceibly remove the Indians then living in the area of the Salt Lake and Utah Valleys. Lincoln asked if the Uinta Valley would be appropriate for this purpose, and Young reported that the land was so utterly useless that its only purpose was to hold the other parts of the world together. Most of the Utah Indians—the Sahyehpeech, Pahvant, Sahpeech, Toompanawach, Cumumba and Yoovwetuh—were forced onto this Reservation by 1867 and became known collectively as the Uinta Indians. Following an uprising in 1879, the Colorado Utes, at that time occupying some 25,000 square miles in the mountainous west of the neighboring state, were deprived of that land and forced (1882) onto two Utah reserves, including the Uinta one, which became known as the Uncompahgre, and later the Uintah and Ouray, Reservation; it holds the latter name today. It attained its greatest size circa 1886, when it sprawled over both slopes of the Uintah Mountains and took up the entire southern half of present-day Uintah County besides. In later years, especially after the allotment system came in early in the 20th Century, it was gradually reduced, piece by piece, and carved into three distinct regions: the reservation, the Ashley, Wasatch, and Uinta National Forests (in which livestock was and is grazed), and "non-Indian" land that had been opened to white settlement under the Homestead Act, of which the principal towns were and are Roosevelt and Duchesne.

In Slim and Jess's history, where many historical events occurred at an earlier date (and some, like the completion of the transcontinental railroad, later), things happened differently. As noted in the story, the Mormons, spreading eastward out of Salt Lake City (they had little incentive to go west, since that way lay only the Great Salt Lake Desert), soon discovered the mountains, with their rich grasses, plentiful pine and spruce timber, and many lakes, and being well aware of the value of the second, particularly, as their empire expanded, they were eager to retain control of it. So, when the time came to remove the Indians from the vicinity of their settlements, they asked Washington to establish a reservation east of the Green River and northwest of the Colorado, a 6500-square-mile triangle consisting of the Yampa and East Tavaputs Plateaux and the Grand Valley. This Washington did (the Mormons provided temporary ferries to get the tribesfolk and their possessions across the perilous stream), leaving the mountains open to white settlement, and so Matt French and his adopted family, who had already established their home there, were free to remain.


End file.
